


Scattered Ashes

by Bennyhatter



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: Also there is rimming, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Daryl is secretly a needy/slutty bottom you know it's true, BAMF Rick Grimes, Begging kink (with body not words), Canonical Character Death, Cumplay, Gratuitous Violence, He just doesn't want people to know he cares, I REGRET NOTHING, Kinda, M/M, Merle Dixon is an asshole, Merle Dixon is secretely an awesome brother, Multiple Orgasms, Mute Daryl Dixon, Rick has a filthy mouth, Rick is a dominant fucker you know he is, Rough Sex, Vampire Daryl Dixon, a lot of blood, and top!Rick, biting kink, but he loves his brother, eager!Daryl, features bottom!Daryl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 114,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl hasn't said a word since the day he woke up in the middle of the woods and his entire life was changed. He can't really call himself a vampire, because garlic and crosses don't bother him at all, and he has yet to burst into flames during the day. He isn't human anymore, though.</p><p>How do you keep a secret like that from a paranoid group of people in the midst of the damn apocalypse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HigherMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/gifts).



> And lo, here begins another foray into the world of The Walking Dead. And Rickyl.
> 
> I am incapable of staying out of the supernatural creatures trope, guys. I just can't do it.
> 
> For HigherMagic, who is a darling whom I love very much. Go read her stuff, guys. She writes amazing Supernatural fanfic.

The blood of the coyote is rich and hot on his tongue, the thick copper tang of its life more than enough to sustain him. He digs his elongated canines deeper into the furry ruff of the creature’s throat, biting down a little more firmly; sucking a little bit harder to get every last drop. He can literally feel the strength it gives him filling his weary limbs, which is good, because he can also hear the raspy hiss of walkers getting louder as they approach.

“Any day now would be just dandy, little brother,” Merle bitches quietly, and he can’t help but narrow his eyes and glare at the older Dixon. His instincts flare, telling him to protect his kill, but he swallows the building growl and ignores them. His big brother has no reason to want to poach the coyote from him. Merle’s not suffering from the same affliction as he is—which is to say that his brother isn’t a fanged monster who needs to drink blood to survive in a world that isn’t really worth living in anymore.

When there isn’t a drop left to drink, Daryl widens his jaws and slides his fangs from the coyote’s throat, panting quietly and trying to ignore the discomfort of his canines retracting as they shorten back to something that is close enough to natural that no one will suspect anything. His mouth and throat are covered in blood, the collar of his shirt soaked and ruined, so he strips out of it and wipes at the mess, cleaning himself up the best he can. Merle watches silently, his eyes dark, and says nothing until Daryl drops the ruined shirt and holds out his hand expectantly.

“Gonna hafta find a cleaner way ta eat, baby brother,” he grouses as he digs a clean shirt out of their pack and tosses it over. Daryl catches it easily and pulls it on, rolling his eyes and mockingly mouthing along with the familiar speech. “Can’t keep goin’ through shirts like this, or we ain’t gonna have nothin’ left. Guess the cold ones won’t so much care if we’re half naked, but I don’t fancy bein’ shirtless in winter.”

It’s the same thing he’s been bitching about for months, ever since the morning Daryl opened his eyes to the sight of their father trying to take a bite out of him. He had reacted instinctively, sinking his knife into the bastard’s skull and grabbing his crossbow before hauling ass through town to the police station. People he’d known all his life had tried to grab at him and bite, their flesh ruined and their clothes bloody; their scents warped by death and something else. He’d recognized that who they were was gone, replaced by ravenous beasts with a hunger for warm, living bodies. Killing them like that had been no real hardship for him—his only concern had been his brother.

Merle had been locked in the drunk tank, mercifully alone, and had been hollering like a damn fool when Daryl had found him. He’d ripped the bars out with barely a thought, and the two of them had grabbed their weapons and hauled ass into the woods. They’d learned at a young age how to keep themselves alive, thankfully, and have rarely come across actual breathing people since the world fell to shit.

“You even listenin’ ta me, Darleena?”

Glancing at Merle, he huffs irritably and shoulders his crossbow before making a vague motion for his brother to lead the way now that he’s done bitching up a storm.

“Wish ya’d agreed ta learn some damn sign language, baby brother. Would make shit so much easier.”

It’s an old complaint—Daryl hasn’t said a single word since the day he woke up in the middle of the woods and started screaming because he was so hungry he was in agony, his stomach cramping and his muscles twitching like he was having a seizure. He doesn’t remember what happened to make him this way; has nothing more to go on than the two faded puncture scars behind his left ear. Merle had found him hours later, crouched over the carcass of a buck; covered in blood and making the most pitiful sounds because he was still so goddamn _hungry_. As soon as he’d seen the older Dixon, new instincts had roared to life and he’d snarled, putting himself over his kill protectively. It had taken a long time for Merle to calm him down, and when he’d finally opened his mouth to speak, no words had come.

That was nine years ago, and he hasn’t spoken since. He hasn’t even tried to since the first failure. Merle had accepted his willing silence with surprising ease a lot more quickly than he’d expected, but it wasn’t like he’d spoken much before then anyway. His brother’s only grievance is that he refuses to learn sign language. He makes do by communicating in other ways. They’re Dixons, after all, and they’re hunters. They have other ways of expressing themselves that have nothing to do with speaking.

Daryl falls in easily behind Merle, fingering the strap of his bow and watching every miniscule shift and twitch of his brother’s muscles as they creep through the forest. He feels bad that they’re leaving the body of the coyote, but he can already hear the sounds of nature taking its course in the form of scavengers coming to pick at the carcass.

He sees the tracks before Merle does thanks to his enhanced eyesight and snaps his fingers quickly but quietly. When he’s given a short nod, he settles into hunting mode; gentling his steps until he’s soundless as he walks, every inch of him a predator on the prowl—as liquid and graceful as a cat, but with a wolf’s tenacity and single-minded focus. He is the ultimate predator like this.

A twig snaps up ahead, and he’s already grabbing Merle by the shoulder to haul him back when he hears the frantic, eager hisses of walkers and the labored grunts of the man they’ve been tracking. Daryl can see him easily, even from almost seventy yards away. He’s surrounded but holding his own, his teeth bared and his eyes wild as he stabs any walker that gets too close. His eyes are blue, and as dark and roiling as stormy clouds. They rove over everything as he ducks and twists and stabs. Corpses fall around him like dominoes, and Daryl finds himself awestruck at the display of raw power housed in that lean, wiry body.

When it’s over, he lets Merle go and follows warily as his brother approaches the stranger, his nostrils flaring and his fingers brushing the hilt of his knife. The man smells like sweat and dirt and oil, and the acrid smell of gunpowder is strong enough to make him wrinkle his nose and sneeze. The source of the scent rests heavily at the man’s hip, and he eyes the gun briefly as he waits for Merle to open his mouth. He’s already counting down from ten, wondering what number he’ll get to this time before he has to intervene.

“Hey there, ol’ buddy,” Merle croons, his grin wide and his low, raspy voice cajoling, like he’s trying to coax a reluctant mongrel closer. “Was quite an impressive entrance ya just gave us. Where’d ya learn ta fight like that?”

It takes a moment for the man to respond, which makes Daryl paranoid and suspicious in tandem. In that moment, they’re stared at and sized up in a way that is clearly to gauge the level of danger they may or may not possess. They’re doing the same thing to him, though, because as nice as it is to see an actual living, breathing person, they have no idea who he is or what he’s like.

“The Academy,” the man finally replies, wiping his blade clean on his jeans. Daryl’s mental countdown screeches to a stop at four, and he’s already reaching out to grab Merle because he knows where this is going. Sure enough, the older Dixon doesn’t fail to disappoint.

“You’re a damn cop? Shit, Officer Friendly, should’a let them walkers eatcha then. Would’a saved us a trip.”

Daryl rolls his eyes skyward and sighs heavily, choosing to step away once he’s mostly sure that Merle’s only planning on a little verbal abuse and nothing more. He keeps more to the shade, because while he knows that the sun won’t kill him, it’s still the middle of the summer in Georgia, and it’s easily over one hundred degrees today.

As he wanders away, a set of rabbit prints catches his attention. Merle won’t eat a predator, but he’ll eat anything else, so he pulls his crossbow off his back and hunkers down to start tracking. He’s not going to need to feed himself for at least a day and a half, but Merle needs to eat soon. Behind him, he can hear the banter going on between his brother and the cop, and while it’s not exactly friendly, it’s lacking any edge of danger, so he figures everything’s fine. He does hear something about a wife and son, but most of his attention is locked into his task. Flaring his nostrils, he draws in the multitude of scents around him and picks out the rabbit easily.

“Daryl, right?”

Glancing up, he levels the man with a calculating stare, his eyes narrowed. A quick nod is his answer before he drops his gaze back down. He doesn’t want to stare for too long, even if the guy is more than nice to look at. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, but it works for him really well, and his hair is waves of soft-looking curls that cling to the sides of his tanned, pretty throat. Another deep inhale brings in the musky scent of a virile male, and he licks his lips unconsciously before realizing what he’s doing and snapping his eyes back to the ground.

_Stop thinking, start tracking._

“Your brother says you two have been out here on your own for a while. Says you’re headed Atlanta way. Would you mind if I tag along?”

Daryl looks up just enough to stare at the man’s chin, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together tightly.

_I don’t even know you. What do you want with me?_

As if the man has heard his thoughts, he makes a quiet noise and smiles sheepishly, holding out a hand that he drops the second Daryl’s shoulders twitch reflexively. “Sorry, probably should have started with my name. I’m Rick Grimes. I’d say that it’s a pleasure to meet you, but considering the circumstances…”

A glance at Merle shows his brother watching their interaction, the faint sound of his teeth grinding ringing in Daryl’s ears far too loudly. They share a quick look, eyes dark and eyebrows arching as they communicate the way only they can.

**_You wanna?_ **

_Up to you._

**_You trust him?_ **

_Hell no, but we’ll do what needs done if it comes to that._

Merle nods, accepting his decision, and saunters over. Figuring that the conversation is done, he leaves them to their chatter and goes back to hunting. The last thing he pays attention to is his brother’s chuckle, the sound dripping with arrogance and tinged with suspicion, as Merle’s low, rough voice rumbles, “Welcome to the party, officer.”

 

 

 

By the time night has fallen, nothing to light the way but billions of twinkling starts and a sliver of moonlight, Daryl is ready to claw his way up the nearest tree and be done. Merle is such a fucking jackass sometimes, and Rick hasn’t been spared a single sharp-tongued lash from his brother no matter what. Despite his proficiency for killing walkers—the man is _good_ at it, ridiculously so—everything else has been fair game, from the way his clothes hang off him to his riotous curls to the way he just smiles calmly in the face of everything the older Dixon throws at him and chuckles. The words he lobs back are playful and light, but beneath that is pure steel that Daryl picks up on easily even if his brother doesn’t quite manage to. When they finally stop for the night, he’s twitchy and biting too hard at the skin around his left thumbnail, breaking the skin with one sharp canine and licking at the warm bead of blood that wells up. It does nothing to him, doesn’t make the all-consuming hunger pang through his belly thanks to the sacrifice of the coyote.

“You okay?” Rick asks, dropping back and reaching out to grip his shoulder. Just like the last time, Daryl twitches away and shoots him a wary look, and the cop makes a calming sound in the back of his throat. He goes from searching for contact to holding his hand out like he’s trying to coax a wary, shy mutt closer for a sniff. Daryl wrinkles his nose at his own analogy and comparing himself to a shaggy, mangy dog, but he’s not offended the way he thinks he should be. Nonetheless, he gives a quick, jerky nod of his head and turns away somewhat to watch Merle clear a spot for a fire. They can’t make it too high, but they also can’t eat raw rabbit and squirrel. As if sensing his thoughts, the older Dixon looks at him and arches an eyebrow. When Daryl tips his head just slightly, his brother grins and goes back to work.

Georgia is beautiful at night. That’s not to say that the deep forests and endless sky aren’t something to look at during the day, but like this, shrouded in night and the barest flickers of light from above and the tiny flames Merle is coaxing to life, Daryl feels his breath hitch in his lungs slightly. Maybe he notices it more now because of what he is, or maybe he always noticed it and chose to appreciate it more than the others around him. Whatever it is, he lets himself see it all, lets himself breathe in the comforting scents, as he sits on a nearby rock and sets down the bag of game he’s collected throughout the hours of trying to ignore Rick and Merle.

Rick crouches down beside him, and his glance flicks over to the man before he looks away and pulls out a plump, healthy rabbit. He lays the doe across his lap and draws his knife, then thinks better of it and slips off the rock; turning to lay her on it instead. It’ll make gutting her easier, and it will spare him more of Merle’s bitching about how he’s not careful enough with his clothes.

As he gets to work, he tries to ignore the cool, slick blood that smears over his skin. He might not need to feed, but it’s still a tempting thing—his own little curse of gluttony, to want more even when he’s full and sated. Something must show on his face, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s skinning and preparing meat in the dark, but he sees Rick dip his head from the corner of his eye, curls shifting and trailing across smooth skin as the man angles his head to try and catch his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs when Daryl chooses to ignore him. As much as he wants to ignore even that, there’s something laced into that word that makes goosebumps shiver down his spine. He glances over, his knife still above the rabbit, and arches an eyebrow that he knows the man will be able to see. “You sure that’s safe to do?” Rick motions toward him like he needs clarification, a quick sweep of long, elegant fingers encompassing the whole scene. Firelight glints off the ring on his left hand, and Daryl bites the inside of his lip because he can’t bite his thumb.

“My baby brother can skin anything in any kind of light,” Merle boasts, coming closer once he’s sure the fire won’t go out so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice too much. He knows they’re far enough from any walkers thanks to Daryl, but there’s still no reason to throw all caution out the window. They’re playing with fire as it is, he thinks, because Rick’s a cop, and he seems to be really observant about a lot of things. He hasn’t noticed yet that Daryl isn’t anything close to human—at least, he hasn’t mentioned anything. He doesn’t smell like suspicion, or anything else that would send alarm bells blaring, but playing cautious and safe is still the best idea.

“That’s a pretty handy skill to have. Guess your vision’s gotta be pretty good then, huh?”

It’s innocent and friendly, and Daryl is incapable of verbally replying, so he just presses the tip of his hunting knife down into the rabbit’s chest and gets to work with nothing more than a quiet puff of a snort through his nose. Thankfully, he’s not completely mute. He can still whistle and laugh and make other sounds. However, when it comes to words, they’re just not there. It’s like his entire vocabulary was eradicated, or forced behind some mental door that he hasn’t been able to find and open. Truth be told, he hasn’t really looked for them. He doesn’t miss talking—can’t miss what you really didn’t do. It took Merle longer to adjust, probably because the only times Daryl really did speak was when they were yelling at each other. Now he’s more apt to throw a fist than cut with barbed words, and after a few broken ribs and a fractured cheekbone back before he learned to temper his strength, his brother found other ways to deal with his frustrations that didn’t include taking them out on the one who caused them.

It takes him barely twenty minutes to clean and prepare the rabbits and squirrels, and soon enough he’s got them roasting over the small fire, the scent of cooking meat filling his nose. He draws it deep into his lungs and closes his eyes, remembering more nights than can be counted when he and Merle would do this for reasons that had nothing to do with staying away from cities and towns overrun by the walking dead. Back then it was just staying out of their father’s way, or escaping from the oppressive pressure of a society they would never fit into and people who would never accept them.

People like Rick, who is a cop with a wife and son and probably had a nice house and a white-picket fence. People who would usually look down their nose at the Dixon boys and mutter disparaging comments about the state of their clothes and the bruises that clung to their skin like they were painted there, permanent affixtures that never stayed in one place. Merle never cared, and Daryl tried so hard not to—fell into his big brother’s shadow like a good little disciple and did what Merle did; said what Merle told him to say and acted how every other Dixon has always been expected to act: like the white trash no-good rednecks they’ve always been.

Daryl has never been that way, though. Sure, he’s got the temper, and the rough appearance. He wears shitty clothes and hunts and doesn’t care if he’s covered in mud. But he’s got his mom’s heart, or at least he has the heart she used to have before one too many blows knocked it out of her and left something brittle and broken in its place. While Merle thrives on driving people away and running from his own problems because even he can’t stand them, Daryl longs for the kind of acceptance that’s impossible for anyone of his ilk to ever achieve. He wants someone to look at him and see something more than his last name, but humanity is cruel and most people never bother to look past the surface.

The pop of sap knocks him back to the present, and he blinks himself out of the shadowy melancholy he’d fallen into. Rick is looking at him from across the fire, flames dancing in his eyes and turning him into something beautiful and vengeful, black and ember-orange intermingled into something that carves past Daryl’s flesh and sees into the very depths of his soul, where he’d fled to a long time ago behind his fortress of harsh words and unforgiving circumstances. It’s a searching look, and he cannot meet it, so he chooses to look away while Merle pulls their dinner off the spits and checks it.

“Should be pretty well cooked through,” he mutters, which is surprising. Just how long was he lost in his thoughts, then, if even the rabbits are safe to consume? As he watches, his brother takes one of the rabbits and two of the squirrels. He doesn’t offer Daryl any, and he seems to be willfully forgetting about Rick, so Daryl sighs and grabs the second rabbit and the two remaining squirrels, moving close enough to hand them to the cop but minding his distance just in case.

“Aren’t you going to eat those?” Rick looks from them up to him, and he shakes his head to make the fact that he’s avoiding eye contact less noticeable. There is still fire burning in the man’s eyes, even though he’s turned away from the flames slightly, and Daryl isn’t sure why such a look is being directed at someone like him. “When’s the last time you ate, Daryl?”

“Before we found ya this mornin’,” Merle answers for him around a mouthful of squirrel meat. He grins while chewing, but finds enough manners somewhere within himself to swallow the rest before speaking again. “My little brother don’t eat much, Officer Friendly, don’t worry about it.”

“Is that really wise though, considering how much running we all have to do? We need to keep up our strength.”

Narrowing his eyes, he glares at the man and snorts. Part of him is baffled that someone he just met cares so much about his well-being, all things considered. The rest of him is just annoyed at the fact that this stranger with eyes like thunderclouds thinks he’s incapable of taking care of himself just because he doesn’t speak.

“Trust me, we’ve run a lot more on a lot less. We can take care of ourselves, don’t ya worry. He’s probably just tryin’ ta be noble, ‘cause you don’t look like you’re real used ta goin’ hungry.”

Fast reaction times and Merle’s distraction means he doesn’t see the stick Daryl hurls at him until it cracks him across the shoulder. The pained grunt that follows makes him smirk, and by the time Merle’s head snaps over so he can fix him with the full force of his glare, he’s already waiting with an unimpressed face of his own.

_Can you not insult the guy with the gun?_

**_Oh please, could take him out one-handed. You wouldn’t even need hands. Just your teeth._ **

Looking away, Daryl grabs his crossbow from where he’d laid it on the ground nearby and stands up. Rick starts to stand too, already opening his mouth, but he gives the man a barely-noticeable shake of his head. It’s not his fault that Merle is an asshole who knows exactly how to hit him where it hurts. He’s just feeling unusually maudlin tonight, and that jibe about his teeth, complete with a pointed look at his mouth, has hit him harder than he probably should be letting it. Someone should be on watch anyway, especially since they have a fire going, so he flicks his fingers at his brother, who grunts in acknowledgement and sits back with a frown already dragging at the corners of his mouth. He knows what he’s done; has always known Daryl’s tells better than anyone. He’s not apologizing for it, though, and the archer isn’t expecting him to. He just waits until Rick’s sitting again and heads out to circle their pitiful little camp.

Being out in the woods, surrounded by the sounds of nature and the quiet murmurs of Rick’s deep, calm voice, is where Daryl finds peace enough to shake away his lingering emotions. It doesn’t even strike him as odd that he’s already using the low cadence of the man’s voice as his way of grounding and calming himself, because he’s using Georgia to do it, too. He feels more alive during the nighttime hours, probably considering his affliction, but tonight he feels even more restless. He can hear the shuffle and hiss of walkers, but they’re probably a good half-mile away, and they’re upwind, so he’s not worried about them catching their scents. It’s still edging into too warm, despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight—summer in Georgia unforgiving even at the coolest points. His shirt is sticking to him because of his sweat, his filthy dirty-blonde hair clinging to his temples in unruly wisps. He runs a hand through the mess of it, huffing in frustration. He misses his darker hair. It’s a stupid thing to miss, but it’s still true. He wasn’t even conscious when Merle decided to prank him by dying it, and he’d been absolutely livid when he’d woken up. His brother still has the scar on the side of his ribs from where Daryl had knocked him into a broken piece of the wall in their house. He has a scar that kind of matches it, though, because when their daddy had gotten home and seen what a mess they’d made of the living room, he’d been pissed enough that he’d grabbed the closest thing and gone at Daryl instead of taking the time to get his belt off.

Stopping to lean his shoulder against the sturdy trunk of a black walnut tree, he watches the progression of nocturnal creatures around him with glittering eyes. If he wanted to, he could rip this tree apart with his bare hands. Becoming what he is has made him stronger and faster than any human could hope to match, but it never mattered when his dad came after him with that look in his eye. He doesn’t know why he didn’t try to run more, or why when he did it was never enough. Maybe it was the memory of the times that he did run, and what happened to him afterwards when he’d had no choice but to finally creep back home.

The scars on his stomach itch when he thinks about it, and he scratches at them unconsciously with his free hand as he sinks further into the serenity of the night. When he’s once again emerged from the past, he pushes off of the tree and keeps walking. He listens to the life of the forest, listens to Rick’s voice. When the man stops talking, he listens to his heartbeat and the soothing sound of his blood pumping; hears the quiet sound of his breathing as it gets slow and deep. Merle’s heartbeat is a little faster, a little louder, and he knows his brother isn’t asleep. He can hear him kicking dirt over the fire before he settles down as well, probably thinking he can outlast Daryl’s stubbornness with his own.

He fails.

The sun has had time to brighten the sky when he finally wakes up Merle by kicking at his boot, his head tilted to the side and one eyebrow raised. His brother comes to a little violently, jackknifing into a sitting position with his knife already drawn. When he sees that it’s Daryl smirking down at him, he rolls his eyes and raises his middle finger. The archer replies in kind, giving his brother one last parting kick before he goes to crouch beside Rick and wake him up a lot more gently.

“The fuck’s this, baby brother?” Merle grouses behind him. Daryl ignores him, which is a common enough thing, and instead nudges Rick’s shoulder again. The man wakes up quickly, and a lot less violently, blinking open his dark blue eyes and smiling as soon as he sees Daryl. It’s a soft, just-woken-up smile, and it makes his breath catch in the worst way.

“’S it my turn for watch?” His voice is low and gravelly, and it does horrible things to Daryl’s heart, so he shakes his head roughly and turns away.

“Ain’t no one’s turn, since someone decided he was gonna keep watch the whole damn night, apparently,” Merle scoffs. They glare at each other, but Rick makes a noise that is too close to distressed for him to ignore. When he turns to look, he finds the man on his feet with a hand running through his hair, probably trying to tame the curling ends of it.

“Why didn’t you wake one of us? You need sleep just as badly as we do, Daryl.”

Daryl doesn’t, though, not really. He can go for days without sleep, just so long as he’s fed enough. The hunger is still quiet, although he knows that’s something that’s going to change by the end of the day. He’ll need to kill something before tomorrow morning, so he’ll find something after Rick’s asleep again. Merle is looking at him, and he knows his brother is thinking the same thing. It shouldn’t be too hard to keep this secret, considering that they’ve hidden it just fine for nine years already. Their daddy had never even found out, and he was breathing down their necks damn near every moment he was home.

Rather than answering, Merle tosses the last rabbit at Rick after kicking away most of the coals he’d used to bury it and keep it mostly warm. If the man has a problem with some ash and char in his mouth, he doesn’t say anything about it. He just eats his breakfast, glancing at Daryl. Knowing what he’s asking without even needing it put in words, he points at a few scraps of fur and bone nearby, rolling his eyes. It’s not his kill—he’d found the remains on his way back to wake them up—but it’s a good cover, and Rick seems to accept it. He smiles, relieved, and his scent lightens too.

They don’t linger for much longer, because they’ve got a lot of ground to cover before the end of the day. Merle takes the lead, so he hangs back a little behind Rick, watching the way the man moves. He seems pretty sure of himself, his confidence too far from arrogance to raise Daryl’s proverbial hackles. He’s seen plenty of other people out in the woods before, whether they were hikers or families looking for a day of fun. None of them had known what they were doing, stumbling over rocks and tripping over roots the entire way. Rick walks with confidence, though, not even paying attention to where he’s putting his feet and yet not catching his boots on anything once.

“Thank you for letting me come with you,” he says after they’ve been walking in silence for a good while. Daryl glances over at him, distracted for a moment by the way the sunlight dapples over his cheeks where it’s managing to break through the thick foliage above them. God, this man is gorgeous. It’s almost unfair how much so.

He’s known for a long time that he’s gay. It’s never been something he’s had to worry about, because what man in his right mind would want a Dixon in his bed? He’s never really run into anyone he’s wanted a romp with, either. Sure, he’s met attractive men in his life, but the majority of them were assholes or otherwise unavailable in some way, shape, or form. The fear of what his daddy would do if he ever found out was also a good motivator for Daryl to tamp down on those ‘unnatural’ feelings. He’s always been weird about any kind of romantic attraction, too. Being nice to look at is one thing, but none of those men made him feel the desire to strip naked and offer himself for the taking. What’s the point if your partner is just going to walk away once the deed is done?

Rick looks at him, dipping his head to catch his eyes when Daryl tries to look away. He finds himself ensnared easily and bites the inside of his lip, worrying at the spot with his teeth. The man is attractive, and there’s a calmness about him that is almost deceptive, but not at all manufactured. No, it’s not a fake front he’s got going on—he is genuinely a calm, relaxed person. He’s shown them that. Daryl can’t stop remembering the feral light in his eyes when they’d found him, though, and how he’d been taking down the walkers that had stumbled upon him with ease. The way the firelight had burned in his eyes last night, too, spoke to a deeper darkness inside the man that he’s almost positive few people have ever seen. This isn’t some cop who sits on his ass and eats donuts.

“You okay?”

Nodding, Daryl stops chewing on the inside of his lip and licks across the bottom one instead. Merle glances back at him, eyebrows raised. He huffs at his brother and rolls his eyes, ignoring the answering snort. Rick looks between them curiously but doesn’t ask for elaboration.

They continue on, keeping to the forest rather than traveling by the main roads. As they draw closer to the outskirts of Atlanta, Daryl’s grip on his crossbow gets tighter and tighter. He can hear walkers more frequently now—frequently enough that Merle drops back and lets him take the lead instead, because he can hear them better and he knows where to go to keep them far enough away. Rick doesn’t comment on that, either, which he is silently grateful for. He knows Merle would be able to explain it away easily, but sometimes suspicion is a tricky thing. Once it’s taken root, it can fester in the back of one’s subconscious mind until it’s impossible to ignore and the damage is already done. If at all possible, he would like to avoid that from anyone they may run into.

If they’re lucky, they’ll reach Atlanta by morning. However, luck is apparently not on their side, because Daryl hears the sound of too many hungry, focused walkers a split second before all three of them hear screaming.

Rick is the first one to start running, drawing his colt mid-stride. Daryl follows right on his heels, gritting his teeth and holding his crossbow ready. Merle doesn’t even protest, just brings his knife up and keeps close. The forest slopes up a little, something that’s too small to be a mountain and too high to be a hill. The screams are coming from the other side of it, so Daryl ranges out to cover Rick’s right while Merle does the same for his left, the two of them offering cover as they crest the top of the rise.

The high sides of the quarry and a sparkling lake are the first things Daryl sees. The beauty of it is ruined by the walkers that have overrun the group that has used this place as shelter. He fires without thought, the bolt slamming home through the skull of a walker that’s pinning a shrieking girl to the ground. She can’t be older than twelve or thirteen, and the way her look of terror morphs to one of shock would almost be comical if it wasn’t because she’d almost just died. He kicks the corpse away before her trembling arms give out, hauling her up onto his hip and running before she realizes what’s happening. He lets her cling to him, her arms around his neck, and kicks a few walkers out of his way as he makes for the Winnebago he can see parked nearby. There’s an old man standing in front of the door, a bucket hat on his head and a rifle braced against his shoulder.

“Sophia!” He drops his weapon and reaches out to take the girl, who tightens her arms around Daryl’s throat to the point of discomfort before he makes a calming noise and manages to hand her over. As soon as his arm’s free, he drops his crossbow and reloads it quickly, giving the man no chance to say anything before he’s running back toward where he saw Rick go. He passes Merle, who’s holding his own with no problem, his eyes fierce and his cheeks flecked with blood as he stabs any of the undead that get too close to him or anyone else who is living.

The people here are woefully unprepared for what has happened. Aside from Rick’s gun and the old man’s, he only hears one or two others. Most of the survivors here are using whatever they can to take down the rabid herd. For some, it’s not enough, and they fall beneath the press of bodies. Others are holding their own, though, determined to keep breathing.

When he gets to Rick, the man has reholstered his gun and drawn his knife instead, the darkness Daryl had sensed before coming to life in his rage-black eyes. He puts his back to the man’s, shouldering his crossbow in favor of his own blade. He can see the huddled bodies of a few people in the tent Rick has put himself in front of, but doesn’t stop long enough to see any details. There are only a few walkers left, and night is encroaching faster now. They have to take care of this before anyone else dies.

Daryl feels the thrill of the fight burning through him, his blood singing and his instincts roaring. He bares his teeth, his canines aching, and growls as he puts his blade into the last walker’s skull so hard he feels too much of it give way, a bit of his tempered strength slipping free as it crumples and he follows it down. Yanking the steel free, he stands and wipes the weapon clean on his shirt; his nostrils flaring as he looks around to make sure they’re all truly gone. Merle is standing beneath a tall, healthy tree nearby, bodies littering the ground around him and his head tipped back to peer up into the branches. Curious, he follows his brother’s gaze and sees pale flesh and darker cloth.

“Come on down, now, kid. Ain’t none of ‘em left ta hurtcha. We took care of them bastards.”

He can hear Rick following behind him, and when the man trips over his own feet it’s startling enough that he turns to make sure he’s okay, his brow furrowed. One look at his face and he understands, though, because the tragic hope mingled with the lingering fear leaves him in no doubt of who could be up in that tree. He turns again to stare up through the leaves, coming close enough to get a better look at the kid. The first thing he sees are the boy’s eyes, which are blue and wide and looking past Daryl as they fill with tears. There’s no mistaking that dark hair, either, even if it lacks any kind of curls.

“Dad?”

Rick chokes on his next breath, stepping past Daryl and looking like he’s ready to climb the tree himself, but his son is already scrambling to get down and get to his father as fast as he can, another cry of, “Dad!” ripping from his young throat. When he’s down far enough, he just jumps the rest of the way, throwing himself into Rick’s arms and clinging tightly as the man takes them both to the ground.

“Carl,” Rick breathes. He curls over him, protecting the child with his bigger body, his arms tight and his eyes wide open and fixed on Daryl even as he whispers to his son that everything’s going to be okay.

 _Thank you,_ his eyes say, so dark and fierce and full of the kind of love that the younger Dixon has never been able to understand. He knows, objectively, that plenty of fathers out there love their sons and will do anything for them—has known Rick was one of those men ever since he told Merle he was looking for his family. To actually see it, though, to see Rick cradling his boy to his chest in front of a group of strangers, makes his breath freeze in his lungs and his fist clench around the hilt of his knife.

 _Thank you_ , Rick is telling him, and Daryl doesn’t know what else to do but swallow thickly and give a small nod in return. People are starting to gather, checking each other over and coming to see who the newcomers are. He watches them, which is why he sees the woman when she steps out of the tent, her hand trembling when she puts it against her own mouth.

“Rick?” she whispers. A man steps up behind her, his hair a mess of curls and his eyes wide. He puts a hand on the woman’s shoulder, then steps past her.

“Rick,” he chokes out, and Rick’s head snaps up. Daryl watches the comprehension dawn on his face as he sees who it is, and he gets to his feet with Carl in his arms, tears filling his eyes as he reaches out with his free hand.

“Shane.” He looks past her. “ _Lori_.”

It looks like he's found his family, then. Daryl steps back to give them room, taking his place at Merle’s side and ignoring the looks they’re already getting when the little girl he’d saved pushes her way through the throng of people and throws her arms around his waist. He grunts in surprise and drops his knife before she hurts herself, reaching down to steady her in case she misjudges the distance and falls.

“Are you the one who saved her?” A woman with buzzed hair and a pixie-like face comes forward, tears in her eyes and the fading reminder of a bruise peeking out from the collar of her shirt. He looks at her and nods, then looks down at the little girl and sees the dark smudge of fingerprints on her upper arm.

“Thank you, mister,” the girl—Sophia, isn’t that what the old man had called her?—whispers into the front of his shirt. “Thank you for saving us.”

Unsure of what else to do, he nods and pats the little girl’s back, trying to coax her into letting go without being too forceful. She must understand, because she steps back and wipes at her eyes before giving him a smile that leaves him feeling warm and dumbfounded simultaneously. All he gets is a second to breathe, because then her mother is hugging him too, and he can’t stop the way he flinches this time. She lets go immediately when she feels it, giving him his space and pinning him in place with the most heartfelt smile anyone has ever bestowed upon him.

“I’d say you’ve earned your place,” she murmurs, and the first tendrils of hope that stir in his chest remind him of brand new buds blooming in spring. It’s a feeling he’s unfamiliar with, but it leaves him feeling the closest to content he’s ever come. When he looks over at Rick again, the man is looking at him over his wife’s head, smiling and smelling like the wilds of Georgia and something that reminds him of cinnamon. No one has ever looked at Daryl like that, like they’re grateful he’s alive. It makes the tiny blossom burst into full bloom; turns it from a fragile buttercup to a reaching fern. One of those fronds is reaching for Rick, and he knows that it’s a bad idea. Right here, right now, surrounded by strangers and being looked at the way he is, he can’t find it in himself to do anything about it though.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are made, and Daryl proves his worth yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to switch between Daryl and Rick's POV every chapter, because I like differing points of view and it's fun. Writing Rick makes me a little nervous though, I'm not gonna lie. I hope I captured it well enough for all y'all.
> 
> I woke up at 5:30 this morning and had seventy percent of this done before I had to leave for work. I have a feeling this is going to turn into something like The Wild Runs in Me, where you guys get, like, at least one or two chapters every day until it's done. I don't know. Maybe. We'll see. I'm determined to keep updating Two Tickets in here sometimes as well. YAY FOR FIC. YAY FOR RICKYL. YAY FOR GAY.
> 
> I'll shut up now. Here you go.

Rick opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is Carl watching him. His son is sitting on the floor of the tent beside the cot Lori had led him to last night, her hands roughened by new callouses but still so gentle as she’d tried to help him undress. He’d let her, ignoring the small part of him that was already worried about letting Daryl and even _Merle_ out of his sight despite the fact that he’d only met them a day before.

Sunlight is filtering in through the mesh windows, highlighting all of the boy’s features. The worried crunch of his young brow smooths out as soon as he sees his father’s eyes open. He’s already reaching out when Rick scrambles off the cot in a tangle of blankets and limbs. He catches the hands that are so much smaller than his own and pulls Carl into his lap, wrapping his arms around his son and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, feeling the hot tears running down his bare chest. He croons softly, soothing his child and kissing his hair again. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here now.”

“I thought we were never gonna see you again,” Carl whispers, tucking his face against Rick’s scruffy throat and not at all seeming to mind the scratch of his growing beard against his softer skin. “Thought you were dead. Shane said the hospital was overrun with walkers and soldiers who were killing everyone.”

That’s right. After everything that’s happened just in the last two days, it’s almost too easy for him to forget that the reason he was separated from his family in the first place was because he’d been shot in the line of duty; had slipped into a coma and had only come out of it a few days before Daryl and Merle found him. Once he’d treated the wound—which had thankfully been mostly healed, with just the beginning of an infection setting in—he’d headed for the closest place he could think of that Lori would feel safe enough to take Carl. Apparently cities are a bad idea no matter where you go now, though.

“You should eat.” Carl is looking up at him now, the words jolting him from his contemplative thoughts around the same time his stomach growls. They share a laugh while he quickly gets dressed, and they’ve just stepped out of the tent when he hears Merle’s rough voice raised in anger and Shane’s deeper rumble.

Daryl has a man pinned against the side of the Winnebago when he and Carl make it to where the others are. The sight the archer makes, his light blue eyes darkened to navy and his lips curled back to bare his teeth like a snarling wolf, is enough to make Rick pause for a moment. There’s something beautiful and dangerous about the silent man like this, like he’s hiding a feral nature beneath a carefully-cultivated mask of humanity.

That mask is being stripped away currently as Merle and Shane shout obscenities at one another while a few others of the group try to intervene; their voices getting dangerously loud until he walks right past them and they turn as one to follow his progression. Daryl doesn’t look back at the sound of his approach, and he doesn’t recoil from the hand Rick places between his shoulder blades. He has an arm braced against the chest of the man he’s got pinned to keep him in place, his other hand fisted in the collar of the stranger’s shirt.

“What’s wrong, Daryl?” he asks quietly, because he already knows enough about the man to know that the archer would never attack unprovoked. Something has set him off, and no one has probably bothered to ask why. The muscles beneath his palm are tense and coiled, so he digs the tips of his fingers in a little and begins to rub until he feels them start to loosen.

“Rick, what the hell?” Shane snaps at him. “The hell’re you doin’, man? Get him away from Jim!”

“Don’t ya fuckin’ touch him,” Merle snarls back, putting himself between Shane and his brother; so close to Rick that he can feel the supple leather of the man’s vest brush against the back of his baggy shirt. “Why don’t ya do us all a favor and back the hell up, piggy.”

“Tell your brother to stop attacking people for no reason and maybe I will.”

Rick ignores them both, certain that Merle will not do anything rash unless Shane strikes first. He chooses to focus on Daryl instead, who presses back into his touch a little before stepping aside enough for him to see the bite on Jim’s ribs, the one that was hidden by his shirt until the archer yanks it up and exposes it for the rest of them to see. A collective gasp sweeps through the assembled survivors.

“It’s not that bad,” Jim protests weakly—the first words Rick has heard him say at all.

“I wish I could say it wasn’t,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before trying to coax Daryl to step away and let the bitten man have some space. This time, the archer lets himself be moved back, but he stays close to Rick’s shoulder and glares at Jim. His hand is resting on the hilt of his knife, and it doesn’t escape notice that he’s positioned himself to be between Jim and Sophia, who is huddled back against her mother’s front with tears in her eyes as they watch. He thinks he remembers the woman saying her name is Carol, but he’s not positive. A few of them had introduced themselves last night, but he’d been halfway to sleep and can’t recall most of them.

Now that he’s found the reason for Daryl’s behavior, most of Shane’s aggression has diminished. He steps closer, pausing when a sound not unlike a growl rumbles out of Daryl and shooting the man a glare. “Jim, man, you gotta know that there ain’t no comin’ back from this,” he says, trying to be gentle about the fact that their hands are pretty much tied in this situation. “You get bit, you turn. There ain’t no alternative.”

“Isn’t there something we can do?” Lori asks, looking upset and frustrated by the whole thing. From the corner of his eye, Rick sees Daryl turn to stare at the woman, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flaring. He looks like he’s still trying to calm himself, and it’s almost instinctual for him to reach over and rest his hand on the archer’s shoulder, giving the firm muscles beneath his palm a reassuring squeeze. He’s expecting to be glared at, or have his hand knocked away. Instead, Daryl lets out a soft, slow breath and relaxes, shooting him a look he can’t help but interpret as grateful as the corners of the man’s thin, chapped lips twitch up into the shadow of a smile.

“Could take him to the CDC,” Rick suggests, looking back over his shoulder at Jim and then over at his wife again. She looks so worn out and tired. They all do. Most of them look like they’re not at all prepared for anything that’s happened, their faces showing their tension and their eyes haunted.

“Wouldn’t suggest it.” A young man steps forward, his features clearly Asian and his baseball cap a little reminiscent of the boy from Indiana Jones. When Rick gives the man his full attention, tilting his head a little, he elaborates. “Hi, yeah, I’m Glenn. Rhee. I’m kind of the ‘go to town’ guy around here.” He looks a little uncomfortable, his shoulders curling in slightly. He’s used to talking and being ignored, or being talked over, his words unappreciated.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” It’s not asked meanly, or in a derogatory way. Rick is honestly curious, keeping his face open to express that, and he sees a little of the tension ease out of Glenn, his dark eyes lifting to boldly meet his own blue ones.

“I think it’s a shitty idea, yeah. All of Atlanta is overrun with walkers. Maybe if just one or two of us was going, it’d be okay. A whole group like this, though? No way we’d make it out unscathed.”

“Could try Fort Benning,” Shane suggests next, hands on his hips and his head tipped back as he contemplates the cloudless blue sky. Merle snorts.

“Hundred or so miles in the other direction,” he sneers. “Nothin’ between here and there but dead bastards who ain’t stayin’ dead and highways that’re probably jammed full of cars. That a risk ya really wanna take, especially draggin’ him with us?” He jerks his head toward Jim, as if anyone needs a reminder of what’s happening.

“What else you expecting?”

Rick watches Shane draw himself up, getting ready for a fight. Jim is still leaning back against the Winnebago, his eyes closed and a sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin in a way that has nothing to do with the heat. There’s an older man standing beside him, a bucket hat on his head and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s trying to coax the dark-haired man into drinking some water, his gentle voice cajoling. Rick has a second to realize that he doesn’t see Daryl before there’s a flash of movement at the corner of his eye.

Before he’s even fully thought about it, he’s drawn his colt and aimed it at Daryl’s head, halting him mid-stride with the pickaxe already raised and ready to swing. “We don’t kill the living,” he growls, even though if they give him much longer, Jim won’t be living anymore. He still will not condone the death of a man by any of their hands. Not like this. They will find another way, and it will not be like this.

Daryl slowly lowers his weapon, fury and disbelief etched into the lines of his face as his narrowed eyes flick between Rick’s and the gun pointed at him. His meaning is pretty clear: _Says the man who’s pointing a gun at my head._ He backs off, though, snorting and shaking his head before spinning on his heel and stalking away. Merle knocks his shoulder roughly against Rick’s on his way by, saying nothing as he follows his brother over to the bodies that are still strewn all over the ground. As they watch, the older man picks up a pickaxe of his own, and together they start to systematically drive them into the skulls of everything dead, just to make sure they stay that way.

Deciding he’ll have to apologize later, Rick reholsters his gun and turns to look at Shane. His best friend is already shaking his head, looking away from him and out toward the forest. “Man, you really wanna bring them around the others?” he asks, disbelief heavy in his voice.

“They helped me find you guys, Shane,” he replies, the words leaving him on a sigh. “They found me in the middle of the woods, they fed me and kept me safe, and they helped me find you. What do you think would’ve happened if we hadn’t shown up last night? I reckon the casualties would’ve been a lot worse.”

“So what’re you suggesting we do, brother?”

A smile turns his lips up, the familial title making him feel lighter. He rubs a hand over his mouth, thinking through any options they might have. If Glenn is right and Atlanta really is lost, he’s not going to risk taking anyone there. Merle’s right too, though—Fort Benning is too far away for them to try without any proper ways to defend themselves.

“The guns,” he realizes, his eyes going wide. “Shane, we could go get the guns.”

Shane doesn’t need any further explanation, his eyes lighting up at the realization of it. “Could swing back toward King County and raid the gun locker. Arm ourselves and teach those who don’t know along the way. Where do you figure we should head though, Rick? Ain’t no city or town safe enough out there anymore.”

“We’ll find somewhere. There’s gotta be _something_.” Watching Daryl raise the bloody pickaxe in preparation to bring it down on another corpse, Rick feels the strong, familiar pulses of conviction lending strength to his weary limbs. “First things first, though, we’ve gotta get those guns.”

 

 

 

When he and Shane bring their idea to the rest of the group, the only one who objects is a calm, quiet man who calls himself Morales.

“Nothing against any of you; you’ve all done right by us,” the Hispanic man says, looking at all of them with gratitude in his eyes. “But I have to think of my family. We’re heading to find the rest of them.” His wife is nodding, holding their children close and trying to smile past the worry carved into her pretty features.

“Will you be all right?” Rick asks, worried what going off on their own will bring but knowing that Morales will do anything to keep his family safe for as long as he possibly can. They don’t have any extra weapons they can spare, but the man already has a small revolver that he pulls from the waistband of his pants. He hands it over without question, letting Rick check it quickly to make sure it’s in working condition. When he gives it back, it’s with a nod and a smile. “Be safe, then. We’re headed toward King County, if you change your minds.”

“We won’t, but thank you.”

There’s a series of hugs and pats on the back, and then they all watch as the man and his family climb into their car and drive away. Rick has never been the type to pray, and he’s not about to start now, but he sincerely hopes that Morales finds the rest of his family, and that they all make it through everything that comes their way.

“Are we all going along, then?”

The question comes from the older gentleman in the bucket hat. When Rick looks at him, he smiles and nods in greeting. “I’m Dale. I would have introduced myself last night, but you seemed like you were a little out of it.”

“I reckon it’s our best bet,” Rick replies, glancing at Shane for his approval and watching his best friend nod. “That way we can just go once we’ve got the firepower we need. No sense in heading that way and then having to come all the way back. We can follow the highway toward Fort Benning for now, but we’ll keep our eyes open for any possibility of shelter along the way.”

“Your plan sounds good, dude, but I gotta tell ya, I ain’t so sure about some aspects of it.” This time it’s a black man who steps forward, looking tense and not quite able to meet his eyes. Rick frowns and tries to redirect his attention back up to him.

“What are you worried about?” He deliberately trails off at the end, because he’s still not certain who everyone is. The other man picks up on it, thankfully, and finally looks at him.

“Call me T-Dog. And I ain’t sure about travelin’ with those two.” He nods quickly toward Daryl and Merle, who have paused to stand side-by-side, their heads lowered. Merle is saying something, and Daryl reacts with either facial expressions or hand gestures that are a little too rude for children to witness.

“You think they’re gonna be a problem?” There’s defensiveness creeping into his tone, and Rick tries not to let it get the better of him, but he’s already frustrated by the fact that no one seems to want to take into account that Daryl and Merle have done nothing but try to help so far, even if Merle is a bit of a rough character. Not that Daryl isn’t, either, but most of them seem to find him a bit more acceptable. Whether it’s because he doesn’t talk or because he’d saved Sophia, Rick isn’t sure. Either way, he can feel himself starting to lose his temper a little.

“No one is disputing what they’ve done,” Lori says quickly, better than anyone but Shane at seeing his tells and stepping forward to lay her hand on his arm. He looks at her, taking a moment to breathe and calm himself. He can see Daryl looking over, a hand held up to Merle to halt his words. “We’ve just gotten close here, Rick. All of us, we’ve had weeks to get used to one another. Bringing in new people like this… it’s going to take us time to get used to them.”

“You already seem pretty used to me,” he points out, looking from T-Dog to Dale to Glenn. There’s a black woman with thin, sharp features, but she doesn’t seem to care about whatever they decide, because she’s taken Dale’s place and is wiping at Jim’s forehead while a blonde woman helps him drink.

“That’s different. Shane and Carl and I know you. No one knows them.”

“ _I_ know them.” Pulling away from Lori, he shakes his head. “They won’t cause any trouble that isn’t brought their way first. I’m vouching for them, Lori. They’ll do right by us. If we’re done discussing, now, I think we should all get packed up to move out.”

“What about Jim?” Shane runs a hand back through his hair, letting out a gusty sigh. “Jesus, this is a damn mess.”

“I’ll stay with Jim,” the black woman offers, looking up at them. Multiple people go to protest at once, but she silences them all with a swift shake of her head.

“Jacqui, you can’t-”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Andrea,” she retorts, but her words lack any sharpness. She gentles them further when she continues to speak. “I’m stayin’ with Jim, sugar. Someone’s gotta be here with him when the time comes.”

“What about you?” Andrea protests. Jacqui just smiles sadly and pulls the collar of her shirt aside to show them a bite that is still oozing a bit of blood.

“Bastard got the drop on me,” she chuckles. “Guess I’m handling it better than Jim is. Don’t worry about me, honey. When the time comes, I’ll do what needs to be done.”

There isn’t much anyone can say to that. No one likes it, but there isn’t another way. With their decision made, Rick goes to start pulling down the tents to pack them up. Carl helps him, and he can see Lori talking to Shane, their heads bowed close together and tension visible between them. There’s something else there, too, something that wasn’t there before. It’s in the way Shane puts his hand on Lori’s arm, rubbing up and down gently; in the way she looks as she reaches out, her hand hovering in the space between them like she wants to touch but can’t quite make herself. They don’t realize he can see them, but he can’t find it in himself to be angry or suspicious about how close they’ve become while he was gone.

Carl said that Shane told them he was dead. He’d only do that if he was absolutely sure of it. He’d never lie to them about something like that.

“Dad?” Carl’s voice draws his attention back to his task, and he smiles over at his son as they continue working.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Are Daryl and Merle bad people?”

His hands still, and he frowns heavily. “What makes you think that?”

“No one wants them to come with us, even though Daryl saved Sophia and Merle saved me. They seem like they’re good guys, even though they look like the kind of people mom always told me to stay away from. Are they bad guys?”

Setting down the tent pole he’s been folding up, Rick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks out into the forest and blinks, spotting the flash of Daryl’s dirty blonde hair and the glint of sunlight off his crossbow. He’s either hunting or keeping watch, but either way, it makes him smile to see the archer already trying to protect a group of people who barely believe he belongs with them. “No, Carl,” he says, his resolve unwavering and his faith solidified. “They’re good people. They saved me when they didn’t even know anything about me. That should tell you all you need to know.”

“Cool.” Carl looks happy with that as he busies himself with getting the last of the poles out of the tent and rolling it up once it’s collapsed. Rick has just settled in to help him when he hears a sharp two-tone whistle from the direction he saw Daryl go. He’s already drawing his colt and heading that way when Merle lopes up to him from the direction of the quarry.

“Walkers,” the gruff man mutters, the two of them moving a little out of sync but keeping pace with one another easily. “Probably a few stragglers, or ones that heard the commotion last night and only just made it here now.”

“Gonna have to teach me some of these calls,” Rick decides, because if Daryl thinks it’s important enough to communicate in one of the only verbal ways he can, then he wants to know every sound for future reference.

“My little brother can teach ya a whole lot, if ya just pay attention. Seein’ as it’s you, though, I think you’ll do just fine.”

The compliment warms him, because he has a feeling Merle actually means it. He doesn’t get the chance to mull it over, though, because Daryl slips out of the trees without a sound, his brow furrowed and his mouth a tight line. He meets Rick’s eyes and holds up four fingers.

“The hell’s goin’ on?” Shane asks, coming up behind them with much less grace and a lot more noise. “Y’all havin’ a party I wasn’t invited to?”

“Daryl saw walkers,” Rick replies quickly, looking around to try and spot them. The archer’s head tilts just enough to get his attention, and when their eyes meet, he corrects himself. “He heard them. Four of them. No need for anyone to panic. I think we can handle them easily enough on our own without alerting the rest of the camp.”

“Ain’t gonna argue with that.” Shane's brought his shotgun with him, but Rick’s already shaking his head when he lifts it. A significant look at it and his friend lowers the weapon again, understanding what he means without words. A blast from that, and the whole camp and anything else within hearing distance will know something’s up. He can hear the walkers now, but it’s faint. Years of hunting have really given Daryl excellent tracking senses. If it was anyone else, they probably wouldn’t have heard the walkers until it was too late.

Catching Daryl’s eyes, Rick nods slightly and steps past the man when he moves to the side, trying to quiet his footsteps and avoid any twigs as he moves toward the walkers. He can feel Daryl at his shoulder, the man’s presence impossible for him to ignore now. Even Merle, who is keeping a little more distance, is a recognizable feeling at the edge of his awareness. His brother, though, slots right in alongside Shane as if he’s been there for a lot longer than two days. He follows every one of Rick’s movements, no matter how subtle he makes them—knowing what he wants from just the barest shifts of body weight or the almost undetectable tilt of his head.

The four walkers are stumbling along together in a tight knot of rotting limbs and growling hisses. The first one doesn’t spot them until they’re already close enough to attack. He and Daryl take out two simultaneously, their movements completely in tune as they raise their knives at the same time and bring them down together. Merle takes out the third and tosses his knife to Shane before the corpse even hits the ground. Rick watches his friend take out the final walker, something like awe and realization dawning in his dark eyes when he turns to look at them. His eyes flick past Rick to Daryl, who is wiping his blade clean on his jeans. Before he can open his mouth, the archer is already bringing up his crossbow and firing between one blink and the next. Rick feels the wind from the bolt ruffle his hair as it passes by, and Shane flinches in surprise as it whizzes past his cheek. He whirls around just in time to see it pierce the skull of a walker that was hardly visible through a few lower-hanging branches.

“Jesus, man, you got some kind’a sixth sense for walkers? You always know when they’re comin’.” He laughs about it, but it’s a tense laugh, something in his eyes that Rick isn’t sure about enough to decipher yet. Daryl is tense when he walks past them, heading for the downed walker to retrieve his bolt. Rick follows, glancing at Merle as he passes. The older brother nods once, his lips twitching.

“C’mon, piggy. Let’s get back ta camp ‘fore the others start ta wonder what we’re doin’ out in the woods by ourselves.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Rick tries not to choke on a laugh at the look Shane gives the redneck. They go, though, leaving him alone with Daryl for the moment. The archer is checking his bolt and frowning, bending it a little and listening to the crack of the splintered shaft. He huffs in frustration and breaks it the rest of the way with barely any force, looking annoyed at the loss of it. Rick can understand, because he’s only got a few bolts left. Every one of them is a possible life-saver, so having more is better. Maybe he can find some in one of the stores in King County. Or maybe they’ll get lucky and stumble across an archery shop along the way. Either way, he’s already resolved to find more bolts when Daryl looks up at him and arches an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” Rick tells him, and he watches the man’s face go smooth and blank in that way people tend to react when they’re being shown gratitude and have no idea what they’ve done to deserve it. Seeing that expression makes his heart ache a little, and he offers his hand to help Daryl stand. Not because he thinks that the man can’t do it on his own, but because he wants to. When a rough palm slots against his own, strong fingers curling around his, he tightens his grip a little and hauls the hunter to his feet. Daryl weighs less than he thought he would, considering there’s not an ounce of extra fat anywhere on him and more than enough muscle. Muscle weighs more, anyway, or at least that’s what Rick remembers his gym teacher telling him once, way back in high school.

Once he’s standing on his own, Daryl doesn’t immediately let go and pull away. Rick doesn’t either, just taking in the other man’s features now that he’s got a moment to do so. Beneath the dirt and sweat that covers the archer like a well-established second layer— _or a protective shield_ , his mind whispers—his skin is surprisingly smooth and unblemished. There’s faint scarring around his left eye, which he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking so closely. His lips are thin and a little chapped, but they look soft. His eyes, though narrowed more out of defense of self than a physical trait, are as clear and bright as the Georgia sky. Right now they’re a little darker, something hidden in their depths that he can taste on the breeze but can’t yet decipher.

When those eyes drop to his mouth, Rick licks his lips—just a quick swipe of his tongue over the dry flesh. It’s enough to break whatever was building, though. Daryl lets go like he’s been burned, a soft hitch in his next breath that their close proximity betrays him for. There’s a faint pink tint to his cheeks, his eyes hardened to steel and guarded again. Rick misses them being liquid and open, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on the disappointment. Instead, he steps aside and lets the archer pass him, turning to follow him back to camp because he’s not entirely sure which way to go, having paid more attention to getting to Daryl than figuring out markers. He knows there’s still a bit more packing to do before they can head out, and he hopes he won’t look as distracted as he is.

It was in high school when Rick realized he was bisexual, although he didn’t get much chance to explore that side of his sexuality. He kissed a few boys and got in a few quick gropes when he could, but then he met Lori and his mother started cooing about grandchildren and marriage. Lori was sweet and beautiful; he fell for her hard and fast and loved her fiercely. He still does love her, but they were starting to draw apart long before he got shot. She was endlessly frustrated by his calmness in the face of any situation; by his desire to handle things reasonably rather than with anger. She wanted him to blow up and express himself more; told him more than once that his apathy was because he didn’t care about them enough, which was _never_ true. When he finally would let loose the way she wanted him to, she refused to accept anything he had to say. It became a vicious, never-ending cycle between them. Maybe that’s why what he noticed about her interaction with Shane doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should. It doesn’t make him angry.

 _Besides,_ he thinks as he looks at Daryl’s back and finds himself a little mesmerized by the way his shirt clings to his broad shoulders and falls loosely around his narrow waist, _I’m not innocent either._

As if he can sense Rick’s eyes on him, the other man stops just before the edge of the forest. He can hear the sounds of the others as they bustle around and pack everything into the cars they’ve got. Packing is the farthest thing from his mind right now though when that head of shaggy hair tilts and turns, one narrowed blue eye peering back at him. He swallows at the sight, at the way the angle extends the long line of Daryl’s throat on the other side of his neck and how the muscles in his shoulders shift with the movement. When the hunter turns to face him fully, his fingers are twitching. His silhouette with the dark lines of his crossbow and the bright fletching of his bolts against the backdrop of the trees makes Rick feels like he’s looking upon the modern version of a Pagan god. There’s something wild in those blue eyes, something not quite human that speaks of age and an experience that he can’t ever hope to match. It’s awe-inspiring, and it makes him long to reach out and touch that which is unobtainable before he shakes himself out of his stupor and tilts his head.

“Are you okay?”

There’s the subtlest of shifts as Daryl ducks his head; the shadow of a nod that someone else might have missed, but Rick doesn’t. He’s watching too carefully to miss any movement Daryl makes. He sees when his fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric when he clenches it and rubs his thumb along the hem like he’s uncertain of something.

“What’s wrong?”

Those shy blue eyes flick up to his face; a pink tongue curls out to lick quickly at the corner of his mouth. He’s nervous, but not worryingly so. When Rick dips his head a little to fully meet those eyes, he watches some of the steel melt away; smiles when he sees a little of the softness return.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Daryl. No one’s going to drive you out.” Reaching out, he touches the curve of one strong shoulder, fingers finding bare, warm skin and coming away smudged with a little dirt and sweat. It doesn’t feel like a stain, though, and rather than wiping it away he lets it cling to his fingertips. “We’re gonna get the guns, and then we’re gonna find somewhere we can all be safe.”

One thin, dark eyebrow arches at him. The color is so different from the dirty blonde bangs above it that he wonders what the man’s natural hair color is. A lot of people dye their hair these days—or at least, they used to. Daryl never struck him as the type, but maybe he has. Rather than letting himself stay distracted by that thought, he focuses on what the archer is trying to say to him.

_You think there’s really such a place?_

He figures that’s the gist of it, and he smiles wider as he nods. The thing of it is, he really does believe that there could be a place out there where they can all be safe. He has to believe that, because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. So he pats Daryl on the shoulder, feeling a growing sense of relief that the archer no longer flinches when he reaches for him. That relief is short-lived though, snuffed out by the thought of what could possibly have happened to make a man like Daryl twitch away whenever someone went to touch him.

“C’mon, we’ve still got a few good hours of daylight. Might as well make good use of them.” Leading the way now that he’s certain of the path, he listens to the near-silent footfalls behind him and squashes his desire to look back and make sure that Daryl is actually behind him. He’s as quiet as a cat when he walks, but as ferocious as a wolf even if he hasn’t got the voice to let others know how he feels. Rick is getting better at understanding him just fine, and he has a feeling that the others will learn to do so as well, if they’re given the time and can be patient enough.

As soon as they near the middle of the camp, Sophia comes running over and barely slows down enough to keep herself from crashing into Daryl. The man huffs out a surprised breath, his muscles spasming like he’s trying to keep himself from reacting in a negative way. Rick watches, curious and already fond of the sweet young girl. The way her entire face lights up when she beams up at the hunter makes his heart melt a little. Then it melts the rest of the way, because the answering look on Daryl’s face is so fragile and hesitantly hopeful, like he’s afraid he's just dreaming as he stares down at Sophia and tilts his head.

“I heard Shane say something about walkers,” she offers in response to his unspoken question. “He said you saw them before anyone else did and that you guys took care of them before they got too close. Thank you.” She’s smiling as radiantly as the sun above them, no fear in her when she’s got Daryl there to keep her safe. Rick can see fading bruises staining her skin that make the edges of his vision go a little red, but he reminds himself that her father is dead—one of the casualties of the walkers that swarmed the camp before they arrived. It’s for the best, he has no doubt, because if the man had still been breathing when Rick, or even Daryl, got a hold of him, they probably wouldn’t have been allowed to stay at all and he would have been the first one to break his _we don’t kill the living_ rule. He’d have done it, though, and gladly.

“She really got attached to him pretty fast, didn’t she?”

Lori’s voice has him turning away from the scene, his smile dimming but not falling away completely as he reaches out to pull her into a hug. She hugs him back, her palms warm against the blades of his shoulders. It’s not the kind of hug they used to give each other, and other than a quick peck to her cheek, he doesn’t try anything more intimate. She’s not his anymore, not if he’s reading into the situation right. He’s pretty sure he is, because he’s always been perceptive about things no one else was able to spot. It’s part of what made him such a good cop—what makes him a good leader.

“I don’t blame her. He saved her life,” he replies, glancing back at Daryl and already anticipating the way his chest warms at the sight of the roughened archer. This feeling isn’t love, it isn’t even lust, but it has the potential to bloom into both of those things with a force that’s reminiscent of a hurricane. With Lori, the lust came first and the love was swift to follow. This time, though, he’s pretty sure the love is going to emerge out of the solid foundations that are already in place, its roots taking hold and giving it the nutrients it needs to grow into a towering oak. The lust will follow, but it won’t be as important. And maybe it’s a little too soon to be thinking about things like this, but when Daryl looks up at him over Sophia’s head, one of his arms loosely wrapped around the girl to pull her closer and tuck her more securely against his stronger body, he can see an answering echo of his own feelings in those sharp eyes. They burn into him, the distance between them seemingly nothing and the metaphorical caress feeling like the sun scorching their unprotected flesh.

 _You won’t leave, will you?_ Rick thinks, although he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer. Even so, Daryl reads him better than anyone ever has, and his eyes darken slightly; his lips turning down a little as he gives the slightest shake of his head.

_Not going anywhere as long as you want me here._

Tipping his head in acknowledgement, Rick turns and follows Lori when she touches his arm and tells him that Shane has been looking for him. They have a lot of things to talk about, and plans need to be set in place. As he heads for the Winnebago, already mapping out routes they can take in his mind that will keep them away from any major roads or towns, he catches sight of Merle at the edge of his periphery and turns his head. Daryl’s brother is looking at him, his eyes dark and contemplative as he chews on the filter of the unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. When their gazes lock, understanding passes between them. Merle understands Rick’s place and where he falls in relation to it, and Rick understands the man’s silent warning when it flashes across his face, because Daryl is a grown man and he is more than capable of taking care of himself, but he’s still Merle’s little brother, and if he does anything to hurt the archer in any way then he’s going to find himself in a whole world of pain.

Luckily he’s got no plans on hurting Daryl, so he nods and smiles when Merle nods too before pulling a lighter out of his pocket and flicking it open. He brings the tiny flame up to the end of his cigarette and inhales the smoke before blowing it out the side of his mouth. It hangs around his head for a moment before dispersing on the breeze, the little wisps of it reminding Rick of the smoky remains of what once was before they’re drawn away; evaporated into nothing but memory, leaving only what is and what is meant to come stretching ahead of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl pines and the group grows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is really slow in relation to everything else. It kind of had to be, though, I guess?
> 
> Things will speed up in the next chapter, I promise!
> 
> Also, if this is rife with errors, I do apologize. I was determined to get this posted before bed. As soon as I'm awake enough to be functional, I'll read back through and try to fix things. Enjoy if you can, lovelies.
> 
> *crawls off to bed*

Daryl follows the progression of the small herd of deer from where he’s sequestered himself up in the tallest, sturdiest tree he’d found that could both hide him and support his weight. He’s placed himself downwind, completely still but for the faint rise and fall of his chest as he watches his prey and waits for the perfect moment to strike.

Before he’d left the group, Rick had tried to give him one of the rifles. He’d looked at it and shaken his head, not denying the offer outright but deciding that he didn’t need the gun for this. The man had understood him easily, nodding and placing it to the side like he was planning on keeping it there until the archer’s return—like the fact that Daryl has accepted that particular firearm means that no one else is allowed to have it.

Watching the buck as it stops to nose through the leaf litter, he tries to put everything out of his mind that doesn’t have to do with having so many mouths to feed. Canned goods will only get the group so far, and even though Merle is a hunter too, he’s never had the patience for game bigger than an opossum—never been able to sit still for five minutes at a time no matter how hard he pretended to try. A lot of that was the drugs he took, preferring to lose himself in powder-induced euphoria and the delight of a few hours of hallucinations; whatever it took to forget the rest of the shitty world if only for a little while. Daryl can’t really fault him for wanting to forget, not when he knows what it is his brother was running from. He’s been running from it too, but he never had the desire to lose himself in a manufactured stupor. No, he found other ways to cope.

The bolt pierces the slowest doe’s heart a split second before he falls upon a second one; his canines lengthening with a quiet snick and the hurried sounds of the rest of the herd bolting the only music he hears other than his prey’s frightened call before he sinks his fangs into her jugular and begins to feed.

It’s difficult to find the time to do this, now that there are so many people around every minute of the day. He lets Merle make excuses for him, saying they need to stock up and Daryl’s their best bet to do so. It’s mostly true, anyway, since he’s the only one who knows how to gut and clean the kills besides Merle, and his brother already knows why half of whatever he brings back is already bled dry.

As he drinks, suckling at the doe’s neck like a fawn would pull from her teat, he finds his mind wandering back to Rick, which it does constantly if he’s not paying enough attention to recognize the path his thoughts are taking and stop himself. He thinks of how smoothly the man has taken the role of their leader with no one but Shane to challenge him for the title. The man Rick calls brother seems to have no desire to do so, too busy hanging around Lori and pining too obviously for anyone with half a brain to ignore.

Rick knows. He’s known since he found them and had two minutes to watch them interact without interruption. The thing of it is that he doesn’t even seem to care, either. _That’s_ the part that has Daryl lost, because how could he not care that his best friend and his wife are looking to get cozy right under his nose?

And yet, Rick hardly gives the situation a passing glance, like it’s just normal behavior for his wife to be unfaithful with his _best friend_. And they are being unfaithful. He’s heard them in the darkest hours of the night when he wasn’t able to sleep and the cadence of Rick’s breathing had been too controlled to be natural; his steady heartbeat giving him away to the only person capable of hearing it.

Thinking of the man with eyes like summer storms is enough to make the skin on his face and neck prickle, warmth creeping across his slick flesh and making him squirm a little. They’re three days out from the quarry, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take of Rick watching him the way he does without some kind of confrontation happening. He’s so unused to anyone looking at him with the kind of interest Rick constantly conveys. For fuck’s sake, the man asked Daryl to teach him every whistle he uses so that he’ll always know what he’s saying and if he’s in trouble.

He hasn’t done it yet, too focused on trying to find the trap that must be lurking just under the surface. Nothing like this comes without some sort of catch, and if it ends up being a lie the consequences have the strong probability of breaking him in a way that cannot be fixed.

Rocking back on his heels, he licks the blood from his fingers and wipes at his mouth ineffectively—only succeeds in smearing the blood on his skin more. At least he took his shirt off this time, the heat of Georgia and the desire to spare himself another rant from Merle more than enough incentive for him to have stripped out of it around hour two of his hunt. Now he just needs to follow his ears to the river he can hear nearby and clean himself up enough that no one will be able to tell what he’s been doing.

He can’t hear or smell any walkers nearby, so he leaves the bodies of the does long enough to get to the river, scrub himself clean, and get back before flies even have time to start settling on the eyes of the deer. Pulling on his shirt even though his chest is still damp, he relaxes slightly once his scars are hidden from sight and studies his kills, trying to decide the best way to drag them back. He could do it easily on his own, but that will probably raise suspicion amongst some of the others, and he’s already got Shane eyeing him with too much of that to be comfortable. He doesn’t need to pile on any more of it, or give anyone else a reason to start questioning him.

Licking his lips, he whistles the notes he uses to signal his position to Merle, waiting until he hears the returning warble before following up with a high, sharp keen that sounds more like a hawk’s hunting cry. Satisfied, he hunkers down to guard his catch and wait for his brother to find him so they can haul the carcasses back together and butcher them.

Around the time he hears Merle’s familiar tread, the scent of lemon and citrus tickles his nose and makes him sneeze. His eyes watering from the strength of it, he sniffs and goes to rub at his nose with the side of his wrist, only to freeze when he hears multiple pairs of feet coming from the wrong direction and the sound of unfamiliar voices growing louder.

“I’m tellin’ you, Maggie, I heard it come from over here!” a young female voice is insisting. Daryl crouches down further and reaches for his knife, figuring he’ll be able to draw it faster than the time it would take to prepare his crossbow.

“And I’m tellin’ _you_ , Beth, that that sound could have been anything. C’mon now, we have to get back to daddy before he starts to worry too much. He doesn’t like us being gone for too long, you know that.”

That voice belongs to the older woman. As they start to move away, the scents of magnolia blossoms and clover fading with their conversation, Daryl feels his tensed muscles start to relax.

“Where are ya, little brother? Ain’t playin’ no game of cat and mouse with you.” Merle’s voice is too loud to go without being noticed, fracturing the settling peace the way only a Dixon can, and Daryl curses himself for not hauling the damn deer back on his own despite the possible repercussions when he hears a startled exclamation from the younger girl, followed by the hurried sound of them coming back.

_God fucking damn you, Merle, and your loud fucking mouth._

They come into view at the same time Merle does, the three of them stopping to stare at one another with Daryl frozen in the middle over the deer. He knows he probably looks like some kind of wild man considering how filthy and covered in sweat he is despite his quick stop by the creek. At least the blood is gone.

“Well, well, little brother,” Merle starts, low and slow as a particular kind of grin begins to spread across his face. “I didn’t take ya for the type ta have two at once, especially when one’s so young. ‘Bout time ya made yourself a man.”

There are so many things wrong with that statement that he doesn’t even know where to begin, so he settles for scowling and telling Merle in no uncertain terms to _shut the fuck up_ through facial expressions alone. His brother laughs and holds up his hands for a brief moment before letting them drop to his belt and coming forward with a swagger to his step.

“And what are you two little ladies doing out in the middle of the woods all by yourselves? It’s a dangerous world out there now. Wouldn’t want nothin’ ta happen to ya, now would we?”

“I just bet you’re saying out of the kindness of your bleeding heart, aren’t you,” the older woman retorts, venom in her voice and nothing that reminds Daryl of nervousness or fear. She stands tall, a hand inching toward the rifle she’s got slung over her back. He has no doubt she would use it without hesitation, if she thought she needed to.

“’S it just the two’a ya?” Merle asks, cocking his head to the side and looking the brunette over shamelessly. She’s tall and thin, built like a model but leaning more toward athleticism in the curve of her calves and the wiry toning of her biceps. She’s used to hard work, her pretty eyes speaking of traumatic memories that she’s trying her hardest to be brave through. Her younger sister has the same haunted look, and she’s also got healing scars across her inner wrists that speak toward a moment of weakness that didn’t come to fruition. Her delicate features are set in a worried frown; her blonde hair pulled back into a messy, curly ponytail that bobs when she turns toward her sister for guidance.

“So what if it is?” the woman—Maggie—challenges. Daryl stands up slowly, wanting to reach for his crossbow just to have the security of hiding behind it but knowing what it will look like if he does. Her eyes flick toward him, irises that can’t decide if they’d rather be green or blue sweeping over him from head to toe. Something about him must seem less threatening than Merle, because she relaxes slightly and looks at his face again. She’s searching for eye contact, but he evades her attempts; looking over her shoulder instead and trying not to seem dismissive as his shoulders curl in. She’s probably a very nice woman, he’s just really not good with people, even for something as insignificant to some as meeting their gaze. Even Rick has trouble getting Daryl to really look at him sometimes, and he always wants to look at Rick. Just not when the cop is actually looking back.

“You boys got names?” she asks, and it’s clear that she’s directing the question at Daryl. He tries not to wince, because she’s asking the wrong person a question that requires an answer.

“Name’s Merle. This here’s my brother Daryl. He don’t talk.” If Merle is mad about being brushed aside, they’ll never know. Daryl can see his emotions starting to simmer, though; the apathy his brother shrouds himself in starting to burn away and the danger of revealing the roiling emotions beneath that Merle has never had the patience or the care to calm flickering through the cracks of his mask.

“I’m Maggie Greene. This is my little sister, Beth. We were out huntin’. Looks like you had the same idea.” Maggie eyes the does, and Daryl can see her hunger as it wars with her pride. Both of those things take a back seat to the swift dawning of realization when she looks up at them again. “It’s more than just you two. Two people don’t need this much meat. You got a camp nearby?” Wariness edges into her tone, her shoulders going tight and tense.

“You show me yours and I’ll show ya mine,” Merle leers. Neither of the girls react this time, but Daryl punches him in the arm hard enough to make him stumble and grit his teeth against a pained grunt.

 _Quit bein’ a dick, Jesus fucking Christ._ He huffs in frustration and eyes Maggie and Beth, trying to decide the best course of action. He’s not sure about any of this, and he’s shit at making decisions that directly involve other people. Besides, this is something more suited for Rick to handle, since he’s their unofficial leader. Daryl’s just the voiceless redneck that no one wants to come too close to. They’d rather pity him from afar—most of them, at least. Carol and Sophia seem far more attached to him than they should be for only knowing him four days.

“Reckon ya should call your buddy, Daryl. Otherwise we’re all just gonna keep standing here staring awkwardly at one another. Not that this ain’t fun and all, but if I ain’t allowed ta touch, I don’t see much point in lookin’.”

Raising his middle finger Merle’s way, Daryl licks his lips and whistles for Rick, using the only one the man knows so far and already berating himself for the stress he knows it’s going to cause.

It fucking figures that the only call Rick knows would be the one to warn about walkers approaching.

 

 

 

“You’re teaching me better whistles as soon as we have a spare moment,” Rick growls at him an hour later, the two of them standing off to the side and watching Hershel Greene and his daughters eye the rest of the group. Carol and Lori are the most welcoming, offering them bottles of water and plates of venison that have already been cooked. Once they’d gotten the deer back to camp, he and Merle had butchered everything they could. A large portion of the meat has gone toward dinner, although they’re already planning to smoke the rest and make jerky to get them through the next few days. Considering how much they’d managed to get out of the does, he’s disappointed that a lot of it is already gone. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s so much that’s making the others a little less careful about how much they’re eating. Daryl doesn’t quite understand how they’ve all managed to survive for so long, if this is the way they act as soon as there’s a bit of excess food.

Ducking his head, Daryl nods and hunches his shoulders, jamming his hands into his pockets to keep himself from crossing his arms over his chest and making himself seem too defensive. When Rick had come running with Shane and T-Dog, all of them with their guns raised and Rick’s eyes wide and wild, he’d felt like a bigger asshole than Merle is on a daily basis. Maggie had seemed startled by the man’s reaction, but she’d nodded in understanding and apologized once everything had been explained. When Rick had asked if there were any others waiting back at camp, she’d said it was just them and their daddy. They’d followed her to a bright little clearing bordered on one side by the river, where two tents had been pitched and an older man with white hair and a serious expression had stood as soon as he’d seen them.

Hershel Greene is a man who is slowly healing after being broken. It’s taking him longer than his daughters, who are younger and can still bounce back easier. He’s getting there, but there’s still a hard road ahead of him. The three of them had come from their family farm, which had been overrun by walkers two weeks before. They’d lost everything, including very dear friends, and have been trying to recover and make a plan for what to do next. Most of the story was told by Maggie, who seems the most stable. As Daryl watches, she accepts the plate Carol hands her with a smile and a quiet murmur of thanks, tearing the venison into smaller bites and eating distractedly. On the other side of the fire, Glenn is sitting with his legs drawn up against his chest, his dark eyes wide and enraptured as he watches every move the oldest Greene girl makes.

Nudging Rick’s side hesitantly, he waits for the man’s eyes to focus on him before tipping his head toward the Asian man. Dark blue eyes flick that way, and Rick snorts in amusement before his gaze settles on Daryl again. “I mean it, Daryl,” he rumbles, his voice low and deep and more than enough to send shivers down Daryl’s spine. He bites the inside of his cheek, scraping his blunt molars over the sensitive flesh again and again until he feels more stabilized and less like he’s about to do something rash and stupid.

Taking a deep breath, he lifts his head just enough to meet the cop’s stare, taking slow breaths to assure himself he’s still breathing even though he feels a little like he’s suffocating beneath the weight of Rick’s searching eyes. _I will_ , he promises, the corner of his lip twitching; his shoulders aching from the strain of holding himself still. He feels like a hound laid at his master’s feet, looking up at him adoringly and waiting for either a gentle pat or an angry slap; longing for one and fearing the other but willing to accept either if it means some kind of touch.

“Thank you.” When those stormy eyes trail away, he finds himself wanting— _craving_ —to have them back on him. He wants to be selfish, which is ridiculous, because the most selfish thing he’s ever done is refusing to lay down and die when everyone around him hoped for exactly that. He wants Rick to see him for who he wants to be, not who he portrayed himself as to make his life easier and keep others away because he’s so different than the rest of his family, but he’s still a Dixon, so he’s got no choice but to conform beneath the crushing weight of their collective failure. It’s the only birthright he can claim—the only inheritance he and Merle will ever receive.

In the middle of carrying a plate to Beth, Lori’s face pales and she almost drops the offering in the poor girl’s lap. Daryl watches as she scrambles for the edge of the camp and barely makes it before she starts throwing up. Frowning, he glances over at Rick and sees that the cop is already standing up to make his way over. Shane gets there first, though, resting a hand on Lori’s back and waving the other one toward Rick, his message clear: _I’ve got this, brother._

Fury teases at the edge of Daryl’s thoughts, his teeth grinding together so hard he feels his molars creak in protest. How fucking dare he? Lori is Rick’s wife, and even despite the thoughts about the man that he cannot escape from no matter how hard he tries, Daryl is angry on his behalf because Shane is acting like he’s not even there; touching Lori and looking at her in ways that cannot be mistaken for platonic even if all of them were half blind or braindead.

“Daryl, hey, whoa. Breathe.” A warm, calming hand rests against his back, fingers brushing delicately against the nape of his neck. When he growls and refuses to shake away the growing rage, slipping deeper into it instead, Rick goes from rubbing soothingly to gripping the back of his neck firmly, grounding him with contact that should feel oppressive but instead feels more relaxing than anything else. Daryl’s vision clears and he turns to look up at Rick, meeting his eyes questioningly and trying to understand—trying to ask with nothing more than the slant of his eyebrows and the widening of his eyes; his head tilting just slightly as he presses subtly into the feeling of Rick’s strong fingers where they curl around the side of his throat as the man brings their foreheads together.

“I told them it’s okay,” Rick murmurs, leaving Daryl feeling stunned enough that his mouth drops open slightly. When the hell did he have time for that? “You were off on a hunt, and I caught them kissing.” Of course Rick picks up on the direction his thoughts are going. He looks at him with what feels like new eyes, seeing how his leader’s face has relaxed in ways he hadn’t even thought to question. “They tried to play it off. I think Shane thought I was going to kill him. I told them to go for it, though. Lori and I were drawing apart long before all of this, and Shane makes her happy. Who am I to deny them?”

 _Her husband_ , Daryl thinks. He doesn’t have to find a way to say it, because the other man understands him right away in a way only he seems to be able to. Even Merle sometimes needs some kind of expression or gesture to go on, but Rick understands everything he can’t say as easily as breathing.

“Tell you what, Daryl. You tell me where I can find a divorce lawyer these days, and I’ll have them write up the paperwork.” He’s grinning, his words teasing rather than condescending. Daryl should be mad, but he can’t find the anger anywhere in himself. There’s just hope budding up like a new stream, gurgling gently as it tries to find the path its best suited to take.

 _You’re really okay with them being together._ He shakes his head, his forehead rubbing against Rick’s where they’re still pressed close to one another. He feels like a cat rubbing its scent onto its owner, like he’s marking Rick as his in some small way. As soon as he thinks that, he has to pull back so he’s breathing in his own air and the scents of the forest and the rest of the group can start to trickle in, muddling the cinnamon smell and the perpetual deep-woods musk that clings to Rick. No one is even looking at them, everyone focused on either making sure Lori is really okay or trying to engage the Greene family in conversation. Even Merle is too focused on cutting the venison into slices for them to dry to pay attention to the fact that Rick and Daryl are so close that all one of them needs to do is turn their head a little bit and then they’ll be kissing.

“As long as they’re happy, I don’t care,” Rick replies honestly. He lets his hand fall away, his palm sliding down Daryl’s spine a little before he breaks contact and puts a little more space between them. “Just so long as they don’t’ ever try to keep me from Carl.”

As Daryl looks over at Lori and Shane, who have returned to their previous spots and are leaning against one another, he narrows his eyes and thinks that if either of them try to keep Rick’s son from his actual father, he’ll have no problem stringing them up and leaving them for the walkers.

His own daddy may have been the shittiest possible example of a paternal figure, but the man standing next to him radiates so much love and affection for his child that Daryl resolves to do anything it takes to make sure that is never tainted by anything or anyone.

 

 

 

Sophia is a sweet girl, but Daryl isn’t really sure what to do with kids other than protect them and keep them as far away from himself as possible to save himself from their inevitable realization that he’s the kind of trash they don’t need to be anywhere near. He doesn’t want to get attached just to have to watch them walk away, their harsh words cutting him deeper than anything his daddy ever did. Even Beth seems to go out of her way to say hi to him, like he's an actual part of the group and he's not just there because Rick wants him to be for whatever reason.

Carol is a breath of fresh air in a sea of acceptance he has no idea what to do with. She’s the quiet, peaceful island he can crawl to when he’s got nowhere else to go. There’s strength in the woman she hasn’t yet found, but he knows that she will one day. When that day comes, she’ll excel in leaps and bounds, leaving Daryl behind in the dirt where he belongs. He can’t fault her for it, though, considering he’s a Dixon and no Dixon was ever meant to be worth anything to anyone. It’s the lesson they all learned, taught with fists and lashes and the bitter scorn of a society that would never accept them because they were too far removed to ever find a place even in the lowest of opinions.

T-Dog seems to have gotten over his original apprehension of Daryl at least. The black man still avoids Merle as much as he can, but he’s taken to looking for Daryl and just sitting with him in silence or trying to figure out a better way for them to communicate. Despite all of the cars they pass as they slowly work their way along the highway, not one of them seems to have a pad of paper and a pen. It doesn’t matter to Daryl if most of their conversations are stilted and awkward. Just the fact that T-Dog is making a genuine effort to involve him baffles the archer beyond words. He keeps waiting for the guillotine to fall and for everyone to realize that he’s no better than the shit they scrape off their boots, but as they days slowly drag on, his ragtag group of survivors becomes closer. They all forge a bond with one another that is based solely on circumstance, because there’s no way Maggie would ever have given Glenn even a passing glance before the world went to hell—no way Carol and T-Dog would have ever been able to be friends, or Sophia would ever have had a reason to trail behind Daryl and look at him with so much fondness it makes his chest hurt in a way that has nothing to do with being suffocated.

Rick begins to seek him out more and more, quietly insistent but never pushing the firmly-established boundaries Daryl has set up but never told anyone about. He frequently finds himself at the cop’s side as they walk along the side of the highway, keeping themselves close to the forest while keeping the others on the road. Few words ever shatter the peaceful silence between them, unless Rick asks him to teach him another whistle or he hears a noise and looks to Daryl to gauge his reaction to the sound.

The only person that Daryl doesn’t get closer to is Shane. He’s even built a tentative friendship with Lori. When he looks at her one muggy day, a week after Hershel and Beth and Maggie join them, he hears the tiny flutter of a frantic heartbeat that’s almost drowned out by the stronger, steadier thump of her own. He stops mid-stride, almost stumbling when Carl walks right into him because the boy had been distracted and hadn’t noticed he wasn’t moving.

“Daryl?” he asks, looking up curiously. His forehead wrinkles when he sees the look on Daryl’s face, and he must look worse than he thinks, because Rick glances back and then wheels around and approaches him the way someone might approach a wild, hungry animal. He’s got a hand raised in an effort to calm the archer, and it takes Daryl far longer than it should to realize that they’re reacting this way because his breathing has become shallow and fast and his eyes are wide.

“What is it, Daryl?” Rick asks, his voice low and soothing in a way that never fails to relax him. Now should be no different, but he keeps hearing the heartbeat of the baby growing inside of Lori, _Shane’s_ baby, and he can’t believe they’d be so stupid. What the fuck were they thinking, being so reckless as to not even make sure they were using protection. Jesus fucking Christ, this is the worst kind of situation to bring an infant into.

A warm, rough palm cups the back of his head, and he feels himself being drawn forward until his temple bumps against Rick’s. He closes his eyes, clenching his fists and trying to steady his breathing. There’s no way he can tell them, not without revealing something he’s got no desire to admit to. It’s a damn miracle that no one has stumbled upon him when he has to feed, although the rate with which this group consumes the meat he brings them means he’s got plenty of opportunities to slip away and quench his hunger when it starts to become a problem.

“Daryl, are you okay?” Sophia asks, her soft voice trembling from the force of her concern. He realizes that everyone has stopped and is staring at him—can hear Merle making up some bullshit story about not drinking enough and just getting a little dizzy. It’s stupid, but it must sound believable enough despite the fact that it’s coming from Merle, because multiple bottles are being held out for him when he glances around at everyone, their expressions mirror images that reflects their seriousness and concern.

“Come to think of it, when’s the last time you even ate?” Rick mutters in his ear. Daryl shivers at the brush of hot air against his sensitive skin and accepts the bottle the cop is handing to him. He knows there’s no getting out of this one, so he unscrews the cap and takes a few healthy gulps. He doesn’t need to drink water or eat meat, but he can’t deny that it feels good as it trickles over his tongue and down his throat; refreshing almost, despite the fact that it’s ultimately unnecessary. It’s worth it for the way Rick smiles, and the collective relief from the others is palpable. Daryl can’t help but hunch his shoulders and duck his head, burning with embarrassment at being the center of their attention when attention is the last thing he’d ever wanted before the apocalypse.

“Maybe we should stop for a moment and rest, Rick,” Hershel suggests. He’s no longer the clean-cut man he was when he came to them. His hair is falling free in gentle waves of white, and his face already has an impressive amount of stubble growth for a man his age. “Daryl’s not the only one feeling the heat. We need to find some shade; being out in the sun constantly like this is dangerous.”

“You’re right.” Stepping away from Daryl, Rick rests his hands on his hips and frowns thoughtfully. He looks at all of them, but his gaze keeps straying back to the trees. “We’ll head into the woods for now and take a break. Merle, can you scout around to see if you can spot any trouble?”

“Guess I can do that, yeah,” the older Dixon drawls. There’s tension between him and Rick that Daryl can’t fully understand, but so far his brother hasn’t made too much of an ass out of himself—at least, not enough of a nuisance for the others to decide he’s outstayed his welcome. That can only be a good thing where they’re concerned, even if sometimes he wishes it was just the two of them again, or maybe just them and Rick. Having a big group gives them more of an advantage when it comes to defending themselves, but there are a lot of cons to having so many people as well. The biggest one is keeping them all fed, and now that he knows Lori’s pregnant, that’s going to be yet another stress piled upon shoulders that can hardly handle what they’re carrying now. He can’t even say anything about it, because there’s no possible way he could know before any of them do. For now, he’ll just have to watch her closely to make sure she’s eating enough and getting the rest she needs.

They move into the woods, and the immediate relief from the unforgiving sun is apparent. Glenn grins and Beth starts looking around at the various plants while the others either sit down right where they’re standing or try to find more comfortable places to settle. Daryl chooses a cool, moss-covered rock and lowers himself onto it; lays his crossbow across his lap and gets ready to take watch while Merle checks the area. They communicate sparsely, only a few bird calls to check on one another and get a general idea of the lay of the land.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Daryl.” The words are weighted and serious, and Rick looks like he’s ready to strap Daryl to the nearest tree and force-feed him if he thinks he has to. “You hardly eat, and I can’t remember the last time I saw you drink before just now.”

Looking away, he knows he can’t say why those things are unimportant for him to focus on, so he tries to choose his words with more care than usual. _Don’t need much_ , he finally thinks, turning to look up at Rick and putting substance to the wisps of the words; solidifying them into something that the other man can understand as easily as if they’d come from his own mind. _Would rather save it for someone who does._

“Hydration is important, Daryl,” Rick growls at him, looking frustrated and fond in kind. It’s an odd combination, and one he’s not used to having aimed his way. He drops his gaze to Rick’s chest, bringing his thumb up to his mouth to chew on it as he focuses on the chest hair peeking out over the open collar of the button-down shirt the cop is wearing. It looks like it was once a dark gray color, but sweat and dirt has turned it a different shade that still manages to enhance Rick’s eyes way more than is fair. Summer in Georgia has led to the first few buttons being left undone, and Daryl can’t help the way he licks at the tip of his thumb as he traces the exposed collar bones. He follows the progression of a bead of sweat down the side of Rick’s throat, swallowing thickly before he closes his eyes and puffs out a soft noise through his nose.

Stubbornness is a particularly bad fault of his, but when he feels the bottle nudge his shoulder he doesn’t try to protest. He just accepts the offering and drinks again, ignoring the way it feels once it’s in his stomach no matter how much he’s enjoying everything else about it. If it wouldn’t be a waste of something they hardly have as it is, he’d dump the rest of it over his head. Anything to try and cool down at least a little bit, although he’s not positive that the heat burning through him is entirely the fault of the weather.

Hershel provides a much-needed distraction, even if Daryl’s at war with himself over whether it’s a good thing or not. He watches the man approach and offers him the last few sips, feeling unworthy of the smile he receives in return. There’s less than half a cup of water left in the bottle, and yet Hershel accepts it like Daryl has given him far more than that. He’s not used to having looks like that aimed his way, so he goes back to chewing on his nail and listening to the sounds of the forest and the group bustling around.

“We need to find some kind of shelter, Rick,” he hears Hershel say, the man’s calm, gentle voice laced with exhaustion that he will never physically show. “There’s too many of us to keep going like this. It’s the middle of summer, and we’re not prepared to deal with heat stroke or anything of the kind. We need shelter.”

“Can you think of anywhere nearby that would be able to house all of us?” Rick asks. He’s got a look of determination on his face that Daryl can’t help but admire, even if he’ll never admit to it. The wellbeing of the others really is his biggest priority.

“Nowhere that would be free of the walkers,” Hershel replies. He’s got a hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other one rubbing at his chin and cheeks as he looks out into the distance and ponders their situation. “There’s a prison nearby, but I have no idea what kind of state it’s in.”

“A prison?”

Daryl frowns and tries to imagine all of them living in a prison. Maybe they could once they got past the initial discomfort and shock of the bars and the thick cement walls. Merle would probably feel the most at home, considering he’s spent more time in jail throughout his life than he has as a free man. That was especially true as they’d gotten older. He’d been in the drunk tank for public intoxication, and the fact that the cop who’d cuffed him had found a vial of coke in his front pocket. Prison was exactly where he’d been heading again when the dead started walking. Thinking of his brother trapped behind fences and cement with panicked inmates and hungry corpses makes him feel cold, so he tries not to dwell on a possibility that never came to pass.

“You asked if I knew of any place big enough to house us. That’s one of them. But Rick, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you really think we’d be able to clear something of that size if it came down to it?”

“No,” Rick agrees, but there’s something in his eyes that tells Daryl he’s not completely discarding the idea. “No, we wouldn’t. Not like this. We’ll keep looking for other possible locations for now.”

Hershel looks like he knows exactly what Rick is thinking, but he doesn’t try to talk him out of it any further. He just reaches out and grips the younger man’s shoulder. Rick returns the hold, the two of them giving each other a nod before Hershel smiles and turns to head back to his daughters. Before he leaves, he looks at Daryl. “Are you feeling better, son?”

Sucking a drop of blood from flesh he’s torn by biting too hard, Daryl nods. He doesn’t try to smile, and Hershel doesn’t say anything else as he walks away. Once he’s out of earshot, Rick turns to look at him, his dark gaze capturing Daryl just as easily as it always has.

“Will you teach me how to hunt, Daryl?” he asks. “I would like to learn.” It’s not a demand, or an order—it’s a suggestion wrapped in a question and delivered earnestly. It’s an offer he is free to accept or deny, and he knows that if he refuses that Rick will not push the subject. What he will do is try to teach himself, though, so he’d be better off learning from someone who actually knows what they’re doing.

That’s what Daryl tells himself, anyway. In reality, his reason for nodding is a lot less noble than making sure Rick doesn’t accidentally catch himself in one of his own snares, if he could even figure out how to set one up in the first place. Thinking about just the two of them out in the woods, communicating without words and bringing down any game together, makes him hungry in a way he’s not familiar with. He knows, off-hand, what desire is supposed to look like and feel like. He knows it’s not the same as the lustful way Merle used to look at the women he dragged home. It’s something deeper and more intimate, and it’s a fucking terrifying prospect even though it’s exhilarating at the exact same time.

The path ahead of them is treacherous and spotted with rocks and quicksand, but there’s only one way for things between them to end. He and Rick have been on that path since the moment he saw the man killing walkers in the woods with nothing but a knife and a will to survive that was as awe-inspiring as it is terrifying. Daryl knows that things will change between them. He doesn’t know when it’s going to happen, but he knows that it will. He’s got until that exact moment to figure out what the hell he’s going to do about it, because the last thing he wants is to jump in and completely submerge himself, only to have Rick walk away afterwards.

Love isn’t something Daryl is familiar with—not the love that he’s seen on television and in movies. He’s almost positive that love _can’t_ be like that. Love is painful, and it teaches lessons in ways that leave behind marks that can never fade or be forgotten about. The only kind of love he’s used to is the kind that leaves a person broken and battered, trying so hard to hold onto the fragile remains of their shattered heart and piece the shards back together even though the end result will never be the same.

Rick isn’t offering that, though. Daryl isn’t sure what will become of what they have now, but the man doesn’t seem like the type to intentionally cause any kind of pain or hurt, much less the kind of devastation that can kill a weaker soul. What Rick is offering is exactly the thing Daryl has always been searching for.

Now he just has to convince himself that the jump will be worth it, when the day comes where it’s either everything or nothing. Considering that it’s Rick he’s traveling the path with, Daryl already knows he’s going to give everything he has, even if all he has to give is his scarred body and his fucked-up mind.

Hopefully he’ll find the strength to tell Rick the truth about himself before that day comes. Hopefully the truth won’t be enough to destroy everything before they even have a chance to start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Merle have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Not only am I writing this, but I'm also trying to finish the next update for Two Tickets. And THEN my muse--oh, my fucking MUSE-- throws two *new* ideas for other stories at me. One is a Leedus fic, and the other one is Rickyl, and I'm already writing out the Rickyl one because the inspiration for that one is stronger.
> 
> Why do I do this to myself, guys? Like what the actual hell.

“I think it’s about time you and I had ourselves a little chat, Officer Friendly.”

Merle’s voice snaps Rick out of his thoughts, and he looks over at the man with a slight frown already in place. The rest of the group has busied themselves with various tasks. Glenn and Maggie are up on the highway scavenging what they can from today’s cluster of cars. Dale is talking quietly with Andrea, the two of them standing close with their heads bent together. Every once and a while, the older man will lay his hand on the blonde woman’s shoulder, grounding her with contact she clearly needs but is too prideful to ask for. Rick remembers Lori telling him something about Andrea having a younger sister—a sweet girl named Amy who had been one of the casualties from the walker herd at the quarry. He thanks whatever God might or might not exist that his own family made it through unharmed, and he resolves to try and pull Andrea aside when he’s got a spare moment to talk to her.

“You lost somewhere in there, sheriff?” Merle asks, bringing him back abruptly. He blinks and looks at the redneck, taking in his slightly bloodshot eyes and the rough stubble peppering his jawline. He looks like he’s in desperate need of a wash, but then again, they all sort of look like that now. Rick’s beard is making an impressive attempt to take over his face, but he’s caught Daryl taming his own patch of facial hair with his hunting knife a few times and has figured out the logistics of it well enough to keep his own contained without cutting himself like an idiot.

“I’m here, Merle,” he murmurs, turning to fully face Daryl’s brother and tilting his head in curiosity. “What is it you need to talk to me about?”

“The only thing we have in common, piggy. My little brother.”

Daryl isn’t nearby at the moment. He’d taken off for a hunt at least an hour ago, walking into the woods with nothing but his crossbow and the hunting knife perpetually affixed to his hip. Rick had watched him go worriedly, feeling the same tension he always feels when he watches the archer go out on his own. He still remembers the terror he’d felt when Daryl’s sharp, two-toned whistle had resounded through the woods as clear as a siren’s call the day he’d found Hershel and his daughters. Rick had barely taken a moment to think, had just motioned for Shane and T-Dog to follow him and started running. He’d seen Merle head in that direction not long before, and if Daryl was warning them about walkers even though his brother was with him, he figured they might be in serious trouble.

That hadn’t been the case, thankfully, but it had definitely been the deciding factor in getting Daryl to teach him his arsenal of whistles and calls. It’s come in handy many times since then, so he can’t say he’s regretting being a little forceful about pressuring the man into it even knowing he’d been hesitant at first. Daryl seems to enjoy teaching him, too—he does it with a little smile and a shyness that is so out of place on his normally guarded features that Rick can’t help the stutter of his heart every time he searches for those sky-colored eyes and sees everything in them that the hunter can’t manage to hide.

“What about Daryl?” he asks, calmness tipping into worry at the fact that Merle has specifically sought him out to talk about his brother. Is there something he hasn’t seen? Is Daryl suffering from another bought of heat stroke? He’s been trying to keep an eye on how much the man drinks during the day, and he’s taken to sitting beside him during meals, close enough for their legs to press together, so he can monitor his food intake. Maybe that makes him seem a little overbearing, but the alternative is having Daryl collapse from malnutrition, and that is just not an acceptable option.

“Untwist yer panties, officer, my brother’s fine.” There’s something like approval in Merle’s face, but it only lasts a moment before something darker and brooding takes its place. When he jerks his head, motioning toward the quieter forest and away from the murmuring conversations of the group, Rick nods and follows him far enough away that they can talk with relative privacy but aren’t too far away to help if something goes wrong and they need to get back quickly.

“What is it, Merle?” Hands on his hips, he gives the man his full attention and tries not to rock forward onto the balls of his feet, feeling his muscles twitch and tighten with growing tension when Merle doesn’t immediately start talking. They stare at each other, two predators sizing one another up in a way that is more calculating than threatening. Just when the silence is getting long enough to make him want to snap in frustration, Merle widens his stance and crosses his arms.

“Need ta know what your intentions for my baby brother are, Rick.”

The fact that Merle is using his actual name instead of one of the various nicknames he’s come up with throughout their time of knowing each other shows how seriously he’s taking this. A lot of people have probably said a lot of things about Merle, and most of them are probably true, but Merle’s loyalty toward his brother is unfailing and unwavering. They don’t have the best of relationships, anyone can see that, but Merle is unshakable in his devotion. Considering how they act around others as well as one another, Rick can’t imagine they had the best of upbringings, but it’s forged a unique bond between them.

“Intentions?” Arching an eyebrow, he doesn’t waste either of their time by playing stupid. It’s just odd to hear that word in relation to Daryl when spoken with Merle’s raspy growl. “My intention is to be there in whatever way Daryl needs me to be. I’m perfectly content with whatever he’s willing to give.”

“That so?” Merle challenges, letting his hands drop to fist at his sides as he takes a threatening step closer. “And if my brother wants something more from you than friendship? Whatcha think about that?”

“Considering that I feel the same way, I can’t say I’d mind it that much.” Shrugging, he thinks of Daryl’s eyes when they’re open and curious; when they’re narrowed and wary and how such drastic differences can really change so little about how he feels. Even when those unclouded eyes are soft and searching, there’s still a fractured wariness that lends itself to every aspect that makes up who Daryl is. He’s hurt and been hurt so often, in so many ways, but he’s still so eager for any kind of tether—reaching out with scarred, hesitant hands that are more used to being knocked aside than gripped tight and anchored.

Looking at Merle, he sees the solidified personification of who the archer could have become, if he’d been just a little more jaded and a little less concerned about holding on to the thought that he could make a better life for himself. There are echoes of Merle’s personality that still cling to Daryl like the bruises that darkened Carol and Sophia when he first met them. They hang on like stubborn barnacles, tethered to a way of living that was more self-preservative and self-destructive but was all he had to go on. For that reason, he can’t fault the choices Daryl has made or the way he is now. He can only hope that positive reinforcement and gentler influences can help fix something that hopefully isn’t too far damaged to be mended. Rick doesn’t think it is, and the proof is shown in the way the younger man is already forming bonds with others in the group even though most of the time there’s a look in his eyes that’s part confused hope and part exhausted resignation; like he’s trying not to let himself enjoy the companionship too much so that it doesn’t hurt once it’s inevitably gone.

It’s painful to see someone who is so battered that they barely think they’re worth any kind of kindness anymore, and if Rick ever manages to find the ones responsible for putting those thoughts into Daryl’s head, he’s going to make them suffer the slowest death he can imagine in the hopes that those bastards will feel even a fraction of the pain and anguish that Daryl has probably felt throughout his entire life.

“You gonna force his hand?” Merle asks, chin tilted up belligerently and his upper lip twitching. “Gonna make him do something that’ll benefit you even if it don’t benefit him?”

“I’m not like them, Merle,” Rick growls. He doesn’t specify and Merle doesn’t ask for clarification, because both of them know it’s unnecessary. “I will _never_ take away his right to choose.”

“Just influence that right to whatever’ll best suit ya, Officer Friendly?”

Drawing himself up, Rick widens his stance and meets Merle’s gaze without hesitation, feeling darkness teasing at the edges of his emotions. It’s not directed at the man in front of him, who is saying these things specifically to see what kind of rise he can get. It’s probably the only way the brothers know how to judge a person—press until it hurts and there’s no choice left but action. In Rick’s case, the familiar darkness caresses his thoughts like an old friend but won't manifest into blind rage or violence where this group is concerned. It will only ever be aimed at those people who actually deserve it.

“Daryl will never have any choice taken away from him by me,” he rumbles. He and Merle are almost toe-to-toe by now. The redneck is breathing heavily, his anger more palpable and dangerous. Rick feels almost unfailingly calm; the thought of giving Daryl the freedom of choice that he’s probably never had bringing a kind of serenity that cannot be shattered by something as inconsequential as aggression.

They stare at one another, protectiveness and suspicion meeting in the middle and testing the validity of each word that’s been spoken between them. Merle finally nods and takes a purposeful step away, relaxing and sniffing as he shoots Rick a crooked grin and shakes his head.

“Always knew my baby brother was too damn different to be a proper Dixon,” he snorts. Rolling his eyes, he tucks his thumbs into his belt loops and laughs. “Good thing he’s chosen until the end of everything to find himself. If it had happened any sooner…” He trails off, memories darkening his lightened gaze at the thought.

“Good thing he had you, either way,” Rick offers, grinning at the way Merle rolls his eyes and turns away, but not before he catches the redneck’s tiny smile.

“Nah, never did Daryl no good, even when I wasn’t around ta fuck him up.” Waving a hand over his shoulder, Merle starts to walk away, deeper into the woods rather than back toward camp.

“Oh, I don’t know, Merle. I think you make a pretty good brother, once you stop pretending to be an asshole long enough to try.”

“Fuck you, sheriff. Was born an asshole, and I’ll die one. At least I’ll die knowin’ Daryl ain’t gonna follow in my footsteps.”

The words fade slowly, the weight of them and the meaning they hold carrying too much force for the wind to catch them up and whisk them away with the tumbling breeze. Rick watches the direction Merle had taken long after the man is no longer visible, thinking through everything they’ve said to one another and realizing, perhaps a little belatedly, that Merle Dixon has just given him his stamp of approval to pursue Daryl, if that’s something Daryl decides that he wants.

Rick smiles, laughing at the whole situation and the thought of what it could ultimately lead to. He’s still smiling all the way back to camp, where Lori comes up to him with a smile of her own and reaches out to rest her hand on his forearm.

“Andrea is taking watch up on the highway,” she says, tilting her head to look into his eyes. He meets her gaze easily, seeing a fading patch of red just peeking out from the strap of her shirt and knowing what it means but not caring. She’s no longer his wife, and she looks lighter than she has since Carl was still much younger. Shane makes her happy, and he wasn’t lying when he told her that their happiness with each other is more than enough for him. Neither of them are wearing their wedding bands any longer, and that was a decision that they’d made together. It was their way of finalizing things, since there was no other way to. There isn’t even any tension between himself and Shane. They’re still best friends, still brothers in all but blood. The only difference is that Lori curls up beside Shane at night, and Rick sleeps closer to Daryl without actually bridging the last bit of distance between them. He wants the archer to be the one to make that choice.

“Who are you thinking of, Richard Andrew Grimes?”

His smile turns bashful, and he rolls his shoulder in a small shrug as he reaches out and pulls her into a hug. She accepts the contact easily, their arms loose around one another but no less affectionate despite what’s happened. “I know that look,” she murmurs into his shirt, her head turned a little so that her cheek is pressed against the fabric and she can look up at him with eyes that are twinkling. “You’re thinking of someone special. Who is it?”

“Wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Bet I would if you told me their weapon of choice is a crossbow,” Lori teases, and he can’t even be surprised that she’s already figured it out. It’s not exactly like he and Daryl were being particularly subtle about their growing closeness, even if nothing’s happened between them yet. Despite the gap that had spanned between them, Lori was still his wife for almost twenty years. She knows him better than anyone but Shane, so she knows what he looks like when he’s got someone special on his mind. There isn’t even any bitterness in her at the fact that it’s a man, or that it’s _Daryl_. She just looks as happy for him as he feels for her.

“We’re not there yet, Lor, but I think it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later,” he murmurs. He glances over at Carl, who is sitting beside Sophia, the two of them bent over a book while Carol kneels in front of them and goes over the math problems. The fact that they still find a way to bring an aspect of the old world into this new one makes him think they’re going to be okay, no matter what happens.

“Probably sooner,” she agrees. Her smile fades a little, uncertainty taking its place, and he’s already resting his hands on her shoulders to offer support as he leans back to look at her better. At his silent query, she bites her lip and takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m pregnant, Rick.” The words are breathed like a secret, like something that’s both terrifying and wonderful and she’s not sure which one is better considering the circumstances they’re stuck in. Rick is surprised, but only for a moment. He knows she and Shane have been having sex—has heard them at night more than once when he couldn’t get to sleep but was trying not to rob anyone else of their rest. He’s pretty sure Daryl was aware that he was awake, because most of those nights tended to happen when the archer was on watch.

“Congratulations, Lori,” he murmurs, pulling her closer again to breathe the words into her dark hair. It’s something to celebrate, but he understands her worry at the same time. It might be the best reason he’s heard to intensify their search for a place they can all live safely. He remembers Hershel’s mention of the prison, and he feels certain that if they had a little more time for the people still learning their way around a firearm to improve, then they could take it easily and make themselves a life there. It might take a little getting used to, but beggars can’t be choosers these days.

“What are we gonna do, Rick? I can’t bring a child into this. It’s hard enough with Carl and Sophia.”

He knows Lori, though. She’s already trying to think of a way, because she’s a practical woman and she’s got a fierce maternal instinct. She wants this baby, and Rick wants it just as much even though he knows it’s not his.

“We’ll think of something, Lor. We always do.”

They have a minute to stand there, just enjoying one another’s company with an ease that hasn’t been felt in too long. Shane stops on his way by, his arms loaded with more firewood and his brown eyes warm and happy when he looks at them.

“You good, man? Saw you walk off with Merle. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Rick promises, thinking of Daryl and hoping he gets back soon. “Yeah, we’re all good. Just had to have a little chat.”

“Went well then, I’m guessing?”

He smiles wider, nodding. “Went better than well.”

Shane grins back, wide and bright and triumphant. “Good. Them two’re startin’ to grow on me, brother. Glad they’re here, even if I wasn’t so sure about ‘em at first.”

Before he can respond, he hears Andrea’s voice—her loud, panicked cry of, “Walker!” Shane drops the wood and barely misses his own foot, scrambling for his gun while Rick draws his colt and runs for the highway. The blonde woman is getting a lot better with a gun, so they figured she could be trusted enough to keep watch up that way without supervision. Maggie and Glenn are still looting through the cars, which means any extra cover they can give will be better than letting the two of them fend for themselves. Andrea’s warning had pointed toward there only being one walker, but they can never be too careful. One can easily become more, if they’re drawn by too much sound.

Coming out of the trees, Rick all-but throws himself up the steep hill that slopes down from the edge of the road. Shane is right behind him, and he can hear others coming as well. Andrea is up on the roof of a jeep, her gun raised and her scope trained further down the road. He can barely see the bobbing head as it ambles closer.

“Don’t shoot,” he hisses as he and Shane slip past her.

“I can hit it!” she protests, not lowering the barrel even an inch. “I know I can.”

“We don’t need the noise drawing more,” Shane snaps, even though they’ve both got guns themselves. They also have knives, and if it really is just one walker, Rick plans on using those instead. As he draws closer, fear makes his chest tight. Daryl always knows if walkers are nearby. Shane wasn’t lying when he’d said that the archer has something of a sixth sense for finding them. Why hasn’t he signaled for this one? Is he too far in the wrong direction?

Stopping a few yards away from the walker, Rick lifts his gun and finally focuses on the shuffling body that is slowing to a halt. It takes him almost too long to realize he’s staring at Daryl, because the man is absolutely filthy and he’s got blood on his face and throat—more of the red stain sinking into the fabric of his dirty tank top. He’s hissing out labored breaths between clenched teeth, though his face is otherwise relaxed. He’s more injured than he’s letting on, hints of damage in the wadded up, messy field wrap over his side that he’s made out of the over shirt he’d left with and the discoloration of bruises on his arms beneath the layers of dirt. He can’t even carry his crossbow like he normally would, letting the weapon drag behind him instead and barely able to hold onto the strap.

“Daryl?” Lowering his gun slightly, he looks the man over and feels the darkness in him surge, that ever-present but carefully-controlled danger blossoming into a hurricane at the sight of the archer like this. He takes a careful step closer, needing to know—needing to be _sure_.

Daryl snorts at him, tilting his head and pointedly looking at the colt before his pain-dark eyes flick back to Rick’s face. _We gonna do this again?_ It’s so Daryl, so perfectly, wonderfully Daryl, that he’s already starting to chuckle as he holsters his gun and takes a step forward. The hunter grins back, looking pleased despite being a little worse for wear. Rick doesn’t get the chance to reach out for him before he hears the retort of Andrea’s rifle and he’s forced to watch as Daryl’s body jerks back and to the side before he crumples to the ground. Horrified, he looks back at the woman, disbelief lasting for barely a heartbeat before terror sweeps in and he whirls back around to lunge toward the younger man’s body.

“No!”

 

 

 

“Rick, ya gotta let Hershel look at him. C’mon, he knows what he’s doing.”

Merle never struck him as someone who tried to play the voice of reason. He’s pretty sure the only reason the redneck is trying to cajole him into letting anyone else close right now is because it’s Daryl that’s laying on Rick’s blankets, unmoving but thankfully breathing. The sun had impeded Andrea’s shot, so the bullet had grazed the archer’s temple rather than killing him outright. He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to whine in pain when Rick and Shane had hauled him up, but he’d passed out after only a few steps.

As soon as they’d gotten him back to camp, Rick had refused to let anyone get close—had outright growled at Beth when she’d reached out with a wet rag to try and clean away some of the blood. Everyone has given him space since then, keeping their distance but not going too far. Merle is the only one he’s allowed close to Daryl, and that’s mostly because he’s got a nice bruise forming on his jaw from the man, who had made it known in no uncertain terms that nothing was going to keep him from his brother.

Rather than replying, Rick focuses on wiping the dried, flaking blood away from Daryl’s mouth. What the hell was he even doing, drinking it? A corner of the rag catches on something in his mouth, but when he eases Daryl’s top lip up with his thumb, he can’t see anything.

“Rick,” Hershel says, calm and steadying from where he’s standing a little closer than everyone else. “You need to let me look at him. I can help him.”

Looking up, he fixes his dark, glittering eyes on the veterinarian and can only manage one short, tight nod. As soon as the permission is given, though, the older man doesn’t waste time. He starts snapping out orders to Maggie and Beth, who run for their packs to gather what their father will need. Hershel kneels beside Rick, rolling his sleeves up as he gets ready to work.

“You’re gonna need to cut his shirt off,” he says, ignoring the quiet sound Merle makes at that. Rick glances at the redneck, reading something in his gaze that makes his throat tight, but he follows the order and uses his knife to slice through Daryl’s damp, filthy tank top so they can see the wound in his side better. As soon as the hunter’s chest is revealed, he feels his teeth clench so hard that a muscle in his jaw spasms.

Daryl’s chest and stomach is a mess of bruises and the still-leaking wound that looks like it could have been made by a bullet or a bolt. That isn’t what Rick focuses on after he finds the first scar that cuts an ugly, jagged line downward just above the archer’s hip. After that, he sees the others—marks left behind by hands that only wanted to destroy that which was always meant to be beautiful regardless. When they have to roll Daryl over to check for an exit wound, Rick sees even more scars across his shoulders and down his spine; a few scattered on his waist and one or two cutting through the dark ink of two grinning demons that are trying to climb up over the archer’s right shoulder.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, hurting and furious and wanting nothing more than to get his hands on the person responsible for such extensive damage. There are scars layered over scars, most of them looking like they came from lashes or knives but a few circular patches of warped flesh that hint toward cigarette burns.

“Focus now, Officer Friendly,” Merle grunts as he holds Daryl in place so Hershel can clean the wound properly to try and prevent infection. There’s still something secretive hidden in plain view in the way he watches them work, his lips tight and his jaw working like he’s biting back the words he wants to say. “Got more important things ta focus on.”

Nodding, Rick helps him gently turn Daryl onto his back, sitting cross-legged and resting the archer’s head on his lap so he can pull his greasy, tangled bangs away from the graze on his temple. That one’s easier to treat, and Hershel wraps a few layers of gauze around the archer’s head before going back to the wound on his side.

“It was a clean shot, through and through,” he murmurs. “Missed all of his vital organs, thank God.”

“How do you know?” Rick demands, panicking at the thought that Daryl could be bleeding internally and they’d never know until it was too late.

“Because if it hadn’t, he never would have made it back.”

“Christ,” Merle mutters, hunkered down beside them with his hands hanging limply between his spread knees. “Ya gotta work on your bedside manner, grandpa.”

“I could pander to your delicate constitution if you’d like me to,” Hershel quips back without missing a beat, his hands steady and sure as he works. “Or I could fix up your brother and you could go find me something to use as thread. Your choice.”

Merle goes, and Rick finds himself once again in awe of Hershel Greene’s ability to handle any situation with an air of grace and poise that is not at all diminished by his snarky comebacks. He keeps running his fingers through Daryl’s hair, parting the strands and smiling at the darker roots that are already starting to show through. He knew the color wasn’t right. When he hears Merle’s returning footsteps, he glances up to see the thin fishing line he’s dug out of only God knows where.

“It’ll have to do for now,” Hershel decides, taking it quickly and wiping it down before threading the needle Beth had brought along with the other medical supplies. “I’m going to need you boys to hold him still, just in case. I doubt this is going to feel nice for him.”

“I doubt he’ll even notice,” Merle mutters under his breath, and he looks as unhappy about that statement as Rick feels. He doesn’t have the time or the desire to ponder the deeper meaning of those words, because the needle pierces damaged skin and Daryl’s whole body arches as his eyes snap open.

He looks at Rick immediately—not that he has much choice, considering that his head’s still resting against Rick’s folded legs and he’s fanned his fingers out on either side of the archer’s face; being mindful of the bandaged graze but keeping him focused. “You’re okay, Daryl,” he croons softly, watching those blue eyes darken to something closer to cobalt as he grunts in pain. He’s asking a question, reaching up to grip Rick’s knee hard enough to hurt and staring at him without blinking as he waits for an answer.

“You were shot,” Rick supplies, rubbing his thumb against the soft, fragile skin beneath the archer’s left eye. Even like this, his face twisted in discomfort and his muscles jumping from the effort of keeping himself still, Daryl still looks dangerous and wilder than he probably should. “Andrea thought you were a walker. What happened, Daryl? You look like you got into trouble. Why didn’t you call for help?”

Daryl’s answer is to bare his teeth, his gums still a bit bloody and his teeth red because of it. His lips are a mess, and now that Rick is actually able to get a better look at him without the extra blood in the way, he can see the abrasions at the corners of the archer's mouth. His breath hisses out of him in an angry exhale, his next words low and rumbling like thunder.

“They gagged you.”

“Probably did it so no one would hear ya scream when they shot ya with your crossbow, huh little brother.”

Merle’s words are met with a tight nod, and Rick reckognizes the red creeping across his vision. He settles a hand in the hunter's hair, stroking soothingly and taking in every hitch of breath or grunt of pain. Hershel is skilled at what he does, and as gentle as he can be, but Rick still nearly bites through his own lip when Daryl has to roll over enough for the veterinarian to reach his back and sew the other half of the wound and whines through his clenched teeth. It’s a quick process, thankfully, but Rick’s ready regardless to go out and hunt every last motherfucker who would dare hurt Daryl.

“Gonna have to sit up so I can wrap your torso, son. Think you can manage?”

“We’re Dixons, old man. We can manage a hell of a lot more than this,” Merle spits, the acid in his words not aimed at any of them in particular—more toward the unseen forces behind the cause of every last hurt that has split or darkened their skin. Daryl huffs in agreement and sits up slowly, a sharp breath hissing past teeth that are still clenched until Rick stretches his legs out and scoots close enough to rest his palms on the bare skin of the redneck’s shoulders and offer him the comfort of contact. He smiles when he feels the younger man leaning back just slightly, feeling the muscles shift beneath the scarred flesh and wanting to press kisses to the top nob of Daryl’s spine—wanting to trail them down every vertebrae and caress every last reminder of a horrible situation with lips that will press love into skin that was previously determined to be unlovable.

As soon as Hershel is finished wrapping Daryl’s waist, the archer reaches for his shirt even though it’s a lost cause. Whatever pain is left is clearly the farthest thing from his mind, and Rick has a pretty good idea as to the reason why. It’s lucky enough that the others are still hanging back, wary of their leader’s slip toward ferocity but eager to see that Daryl is alive and well with their own eyes. The way they’re sitting means he’s blocking the man's body with his, so they won’t have seen the scars. He makes sure to stay sitting, realizing their dilemma when Daryl plucks at his ruined shirt and makes a quiet noise of distress. He won’t get up and risk the others seeing him without a shirt, and he won’t get up unless he’s got one.

Rick solves the problem by swiftly unbuttoning his own shirt and shrugging out of it. Merle watches him, nodding approvingly when he drapes the fabric that is still warm from his own body around Daryl’s shoulders. They tense at first, uncertain, but then the archer goes boneless and turns his head just enough for Rick to see the corner of his bruised mouth tilt up in a smile of gratitude. Once the man has the shirt on and mostly buttoned—his shoulders are too broad for him to close the top few—he sighs in relief and goes to stand on his own. They all keep close, giving him the freedom to get up under his own power but ready to help if it looks like he might need it.

“He’s fine,” Rick promises, looking over at the others and raising his voice enough for them to hear. When he glances at Daryl, the hunter is already looking at him, something unfathomable in his clear blue eyes. He watches the uncertainty flash across the younger man’s face, tilting his head questioningly.

The way they’re standing means that no one but Merle sees when Daryl reaches out and touches the back of Rick’s hand. It’s just a flutter of fingertips over his knuckles at first, but then the archer seems to find some confidence and edges closer so that he can hook two of his fingers around the side of Rick’s hand and press the pads into the center of his palm. They stand like that for a moment, just looking at each other. He wants so badly to lean forward and kiss Daryl, to show him the kindness he is more than deserving of with gentle touches.

 _Love before lust,_ he thinks, marveling at how easily it happened in such a short amount of time. Daryl’s eyes shine, sparkling like sunlight hitting the rippling surface of a creek, and he offers another secret smile before withdrawing from the contact and slipping around Rick to greet the others on his own terms.

“I am so sorry, Daryl,” Andrea whispers. She’s the first one to reach him, her hand hovering in the air between them like she’s afraid touching him will re-shatter what has already been fixed. The archer huffs at her, arching an eyebrow in a way that is too sassy to not be endearing.

 _Best not try to shoot me again, else you won’t like what happens,_ his expression says, and the others must be getting better at deciphering the code that is Daryl Dixon, because there are a few relieved laughs and even more generally amused chuckles.

Rick stands watch over his family, smiling proudly and enjoying the warmth in his chest now that there’s no reason for the rage to linger. He’s still angry; still ready to go out and hunt down the ones responsible for injuring his archer. It’s while he’s contemplating the best time to slip away that Merle steps up and stands right at his shoulder. He sees the redneck watching him from the corner of his eye, and shows he’s paying attention with a subtle dip of his chin.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout them guys, trust me.” The way Merle says it, his words holding nothing but pure conviction, is enough to make Rick turn his head to fully look at the other man.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if Daryl’s here, it means they ain’t. Believe me, Officer Friendly. My little brother has a big heart, but he ain’t some shrinkin’ violet, neither. They caught him off guard, yeah, and they did what they did, but he didn’t leave a single one of ‘em alive. Probably figured he had a camp full’a people and wanted ta know where. Thought shootin’ him with his own weapon would demoralize him or some shit. Ain’t had the balls ta put Daryl in nearly as much agony as what he’s already been through, though. Bet they thought they had the upper hand.” Chuckling darkly, the eldest Dixon shakes his head. “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout them, officer. They paid for their mistakes.”

After everyone has fawned over Daryl, has tried to offer him food and drink and anything else he could possibly want—after the sun has begun to set and everyone who isn’t on watch has started to settle in for the night, Rick moves his blankets right up beside Daryl’s and waits. When the archer finally manages to untangle himself from Sophia’s clinging hugs and send her to bed with a stern look and a gentle push, it brings a smile to Rick’s face that gets even wider when he watches the other man turn toward his sleeping spot and pause at the sight that greets him. His steps falter, his expression splitting open into something fragile and full of yearning.

Rather than breaking whatever is growing between them with unnecessary words, he pats the blankets and lets his smile gentle into something meant only for the archer. It’s tender and entreating, and he ultimately leaves the decision to accept or decline to Daryl, showing him with his eyes everything he will not disturb with his words. If this is too much, if this kind of closeness is unwelcome right now, then he will move and he won’t feel anything but regret for pushing too soon.

The moment stretches out between them, but it’s not tense. It’s merely contemplative and weighted with potential. It’s Daryl asking _Are you sure?_ with the parting of his lips and the way his eyes drop like he can’t stand to meet Rick’s gaze because of what he’s so sure he’ll see there. It’s in the way Rick tilts his head and catches the archer’s attention again, promising, _Absolutely._ He nods to the blankets again, glancing down at them and seeing the contrast in the dark forest green of Daryl’s and the dirt brown of his own. It reminds him of the woods, which is absolutely fitting, because the forest always reminds him of Daryl. The two are one cohesive unit, twining into the foundations of each other, because Daryl is not himself without the forest, and the woods are not as welcoming without Daryl in them.

Knees hit the blanket first, the harsh impact probably enough to jar Daryl’s injury. He doesn’t make a sound, though, just looks at Rick and then their beds again before cautiously laying on his good side. As soon as he’s settled, he sighs in contentment and lets his eyes flutter closed. Whether he realizes it or not, he shifts closer as he makes himself comfortable, keeping his eyes closed but listening to the sound of Rick stretching out beside him. He doesn’t speak and the archer doesn’t open his eyes. They just inch closer slowly until he can feel Daryl’s warm, even breaths against his chin and throat and he can tilt his head up enough to press a soft, dry kiss to his hunter's forehead just below where the bandage rests. Another kiss follows, this one pressed against grimy, sweaty hair. Rick licks his lips afterwards, closing his eyes and humming a melody he can’t quite remember the words to but likes anyway because of how soothing it sounds.

He falls asleep with Daryl’s nose nuzzling against his collarbone, barely feeling the brush of lips that speak of things no words can ever properly convey.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a bear, and Daryl has a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so goddamn tired right now, but I was determined to finish this and get it posted before going to bed. At least I don't have to be at work until 11am. That's a good thing, right?
> 
> So. This chapter. I feel like Daryl is a little redundant in his 'I am worth nothing' thoughts, but at the same time, there is a lot of redundant 'I am worth less than dirt' that goes around and around when one suffers from low self-esteem. At least he's making a little bit of progress though. ;u; He'll get there.
> 
> If there are any major errors, please let me know and I will fix them as soon as I have slept a little.

After three days of non-stop coddling from everyone but Merle and Rick—three days of Hershel telling him he needs to rest and Carol fussing over him like he’s a damn kid and incapable of even taking a piss by himself—Daryl has never been happier to be voiceless. He’s already reduced Lori to tears once, and he’s glad Carol is finding her inner strength, or she’d probably have cried at some point by now too. If he still had the capacity for speech, they’d have thrown his ass out after the first day. As it stands, he’s still not entirely sure why they haven’t.

It’s not that Daryl doesn’t appreciate how much they care, he’s just stupefied by the fact that someone like him could garner so much affection from so many people. He’s been injured so much worse in so many more horrible ways. At least his daddy never went as far as to shoot him with his own crossbow, though. Drunk, uncoordinated fingers and muddled thoughts stopped that level of sadism before it could ever develop into the barest fragment of an idea.

Daryl isn’t a good patient, is basically what it ultimately boils down to. He’s never been able to stay stationary long enough, even back through all of the years he needed to give his torn skin time to mend. It’s funny to him in retrospect, that he could sit perfectly still for hours waiting for an animal to stumble across his path, but when it came to letting himself heal he couldn’t be bothered. Those days are long gone, snuffed out of his meaningless existence by the meaningful fact that the scars may remain even now, but the wounds are gone too fast to ever be able to cling to the faded remembrance of months where every step was agony from fractured bones and labored breaths.

After the first disaster of Hershel coming to change his bandages and check wounds that were already gone, Merle offered to be the one to do it. They both know he had no need to, but it was the only way to keep Daryl’s secret. Rick had extended his own offer to help, but Daryl had shaken his head—perhaps a little too quickly—and the man thankfully hadn’t forced the issue. He hadn’t even looked upset, just unfailingly understanding over something he had no comprehension of. Daryl has never done anything to be worthy of basking in the perpetual warmth of Rick Grimes’ affection, but he finds himself wanting to do whatever it takes to prove himself in any way he can, just for the smallest glimmer of that light to shine on him and chase away the shadows that cling to his skin like sticky tar; mars everything he comes into contact with and leaves stains that can never be erased.

Rick makes him feel like he could be worth something, and that thought is as emotionally terrifying as it is exhilarating. He’s never been anything but a Dixon, meant for the dark and never supposed to hope for anything better, because it just wasn’t feasible for someone like him. Rick takes all of those statistics, every single one of those paraphrased textbook articles about circumstance and the bloody outcome of an endless cycle, and chucks them straight into the metaphorical fire. Daryl lets him, too, and watches the way the flames burn away the repeated words of people deemed smart enough to know the intricacies of every single abused person because they’ve read a few cases. He sees the way the ashes flutter away on hopeful breezes and it reminds him of his mom, of how she burned herself and everything they had and let the wind carry her ashes once she was light enough and free for it to do so.

“Lost in your head again, little brother?”

Huffing quietly, he turns to look at Merle. They’re sitting at the edge of the camp, side by side but not close enough for contact. Despite how much he’s tried to prove he’s not a fucking invalid, they won’t even let him attempt to catch some fish. Every time he so much as glances toward his crossbow, everyone is suddenly even more eager to talk to him and ask for his opinion on which wild mushrooms could be poisonous to consume.

Fuck wild mushrooms.

“I know, I know, your life is just so terrible with all these kind folks waiting on you hand and foot. Guess you really are a pretty princess, Darleena.”

That comment makes his eyebrow twitch, simmering irritation bubbling a bit more potently, and he is wholly unapologetic about how hard he punches Merle in the shoulder in retaliation. His brother spits out a muffled curse and knocks his head back against the tree behind him, biting the side of his tongue and flooding the air between them with the rich scent of his blood.

Daryl licks his lips unconsciously, letting out a quiet whine. He hasn’t fed properly since those assholes jumped him while he was getting ready to haul the buck he’d killed back to camp. He’d been just about to drink from it when they’d swarmed him like angry bees, the first guy hitting him hard enough over the back of his head for his vision to blur and his knees to buckle.

They’d demanded to know where his camp was, beating him with their fists and whatever else they could find. When he hadn’t told them anything—not that he fucking could anyway—they’d gotten angry and desperate enough to be stupid and try more “effective” tactics.

He can still remember the searing agony of one of his own bolts piercing through his side, and only the rope they’d forced into his mouth had muffled his screams. That was around the time his instincts had kicked into high gear. He can’t fully remember what he’d done aside from tearing free from the twine they’d used to tie his wrists and ankles; everything lost to the feral haze that had descended over his mind and driven his actions. Afterwards, there wasn’t enough of them left to be recognizable, and his lingering bloodlust had led him to draining the buck of every drop before staggering in the direction that would lead him to the closest thing he ever had to a home.

“You hungry there, Daryl?” Merle asks, his anger edging into the beginnings of concern, and when Daryl nods his brother nods too before getting up and not bothering to brush off the dirt and the leaves that remain stubbornly clinging to his clothes. They’re no better than the dirt anyway, so why reject the only consistent friend they’ve ever had? “All right, then. C’mon, little brother. Let’s go get you something to snack on.”

Merle doesn’t offer him his hand and Daryl doesn’t expect him to. Even if he was still human, still crippled by the pain he’s had to fake, he knows there would be no coddling from his brother—no unnecessary concern to fall over him like soothing rain, because they’ve been well-versed in pain for long enough that it’s almost as familiar to them as care is foreign. So Daryl gets up on his own, letting the dirt stick to him and nodding for Merle to lead the way.

Before they’ve even made it ten steps, Rick appears like he’s melted directly out of the trees, at home with them in a way most of the others still haven’t managed to be. He reminds Daryl of a forest god, so far removed from the shackles of modern society that he’s able to meld seamlessly with the wilds of Mother Nature, as if he’s one of Her beloved children come to seek disciples of his own.

Daryl will gladly kneel before the power of Rick Grimes every day if he’s given the chance, his head bowed not in fear but in supplication of the awe-inspiring kindness that blends into the dark violence that the man carries as easily as breathing. The two are naturally opposed, but in Rick they maintain a constant state of perfect balance unless outside forces tip the scales too far to prevent a reaction. Daryl wasn’t conscious to see Rick’s behavior when they returned to camp, but Merle has told him enough about it to leave him reeling from the fact that he could inspire that level of protectiveness in anyone.

“Where are you two heading?”

It’s said with enough curiosity that Daryl is able to stay calm, because while the concern is there, it’s not overbearing enough to evoke an irritated response. There are still hints of a bruise splashed against the curve of Rick’s jaw, almost hidden by his beard unless one would know what to look for. It’s a testament to Merle’s own protective nature, and maybe proof that the cycle isn’t completely broken in them if their first reaction to aggression is to meet it with violence. It’s still touching, in a way.

“Goin’ for a walk, sheriff. My little brother is tired’a lookin’ at the same scenery all day long. Figured a bit of time ta stretch his legs would do him some good. Maybe keep him from makin’ anyone else cry.”

Merle always was the better liar between them, and his words aren’t that far from the truth—a walk really will help Daryl. He can feel his hunger getting stronger, the aching pangs that warn him he needs to feed liable to turn into cramping pain if he ignores them too much longer. After that it will be screaming agony, his instincts taking over fully until he’s fed and sated. It’s only happened a few times before, but this time he’s surrounded constantly by people that he won’t have enough conscience to spare, and he’s not willing to cross that line.

“Just be careful,” the cop cautions, and it’s nothing he hasn’t said to any of the others before, but there’s something in his face when he meets Daryl’s eyes that makes the archer feel warm; a stupidly goofy smile threatening to make an appearance before he catches himself and turns away quickly.

“We’re always careful,” Merle boasts, and Rick’s answering snort is a lot louder than Daryl’s, because they all know that’s a load of shit. His brother knows it the best, which is exactly why he said it, no doubt. He really can be such an asshole, but he has his moments when his heart is almost in the right place, enough for him to show a modicum of care that no one ends up believing anyway _because_ it’s coming from Merle. He doesn’t even try to defend himself, just follows Daryl as he hurries away with enough of a limp to keep his cover from being blown, but enough speed to his step to put Rick’s worried mind at ease and show that yes, he is getting better and he can be allowed to do things without them having to worry that every stone he steps on is going to magically rip open the stiches that aren’t even there anymore. Merle had removed them as soon as everyone else was asleep, his eyes glittering and his fingers steady as he’d snipped each stitch and tugged it free from skin that was already mostly healed around it.

Out in the forest, away from the sounds of the others and truly able to be at one with the woods he loves so much, Daryl breathes in deeply and closes his eyes. He listens to every rapid heartbeat within a mile, ignoring the human ones and focusing on anything that could become his prey. Merle hangs back to watch him as well as to make sure they aren’t disturbed while Daryl lets his muscles turn liquid and his feet become soundless. He opens his eyes again, his pupils narrowed to pinpricks and his vision sharpened by his complete focus on his task.

A rabbit becomes his first kill, the young buck’s blood hot and wonderful on his tongue. He drinks everything it has and waits for Merle to come closer so he can hand the rest over to him. No one will think anything of it if they come back with fresh meat—after all, Merle prefers to hunt smaller game, and they’ve got multiple snares set up far enough from the camp that Carl and Sophia won’t stumble over one and get caught.

“Feel better, baby brother?”

He does, so he nods, but one rabbit isn’t going to be enough and they both know it, so Merle stuffs it into the bag at his hip and Daryl slinks away to find something else. His nostrils flare as he scents the air, and when he smells something that reminds him of cedar and honeydew he pauses mid-step. Only years of honing their reflexes into hair-trigger reactions keeps Merle from crashing into his back, and he hears the rasp of a knife being pulled from its sheath. A quick shake of his head dispels any thought of danger approaching. Merle exhales a long, quiet breath and doesn’t put his knife away.

“What is it, Daryl?”

It’s Carl. He’s left the camp, and he’s alone, which is not at all acceptable. He must have snuck away when no one was looking, because there’s no way in hell Rick would ever condone his son wandering out into the forest by himself without any kind of protection. Even though Daryl can’t hear any walkers close enough to be a concern, Carl doesn’t have the enhanced senses he does, and the boy has no way of defending himself against two or more walkers if they stumble across him and take him by surprise.

Thinking quickly, he turns to Merle and motions for him to go back to camp. _Need ta get Rick,_ he thinks, conveying it in the best way he knows how with hand gestures Merle will understand. Right about now he can understand Merle’s constant bitching about him not learning sign language, because it would come in really fucking handy—pun fully intended. They share a nod, and he doesn’t stay to watch his brother leave before he’s whirling around and weaving through the trees as he breathes in another lungful of Carl’s scent and tries to lock in the direction it could be coming from. Today is turning out to be a little breezier than normal, and the wind is constantly changing direction. When he finds a trail and sees the treads that he knows are from Carl’s boots, he swings east and starts running.

Jesus Christ, how long has the kid been out in the forest? He’s miles from the others, which means if walkers _had_ found him he’d be fucking dead right now. He’ll be alive when Daryl hauls him back to camp by his ear, but he’ll have been giving a proper lecture in the angriest, most non-violent way the archer can come up with between wherever he finds the idiot and just before he deposits him on his ass in front of his father.

He’s got to find the kid first, though.

As he draws closer, Carl’s tracks getting fresher and his scent getting stronger with every breath Daryl pulls in, another scent teases into existence on the breeze. He smells deep musk and wild danger—can hear the heavy huffs of the bear as he lumbers closer and closer to the same place the hunter is being drawn to, and he already knows that he’s not going to make it if he doesn’t go faster.

He can run as fast as the wild winds, his feet kicking up dust like tornadoes and his blurred body whipping up its own gale as he leaps over downed trunks and rips the leaves off of lower branches with the force of his passage. If Carl dies, if he can’t even protect the kid with the abilities he has, then he doesn’t deserve to even grovel at Rick’s feet. He’s useless to the man if he can’t keep their family safe, and for probably the very first time in his long, exhausting life, Daryl doesn’t want to be useless. He doesn’t want to be satisfied with not being good enough, because he’s got so much more to offer if only he can convince himself to try. All he needed was someone to believe that he was worth the effort, that he was worth more than the broken shards of his fucked up life and the mantle of a last name that was more poisonous than any venom.

The bear roars, and Carl screams, and Daryl slams into the five-hundred-pound creature with enough force to send it tumbling almost twenty yards before a thick, sturdy poplar tree stops it abruptly. Hissing, he falls upon the beast before it can shake itself out of its daze, his canines extending with a sound that rings like finality. Grabbing the bull bear by his muzzle, he wrenches its head back and doesn’t even stop to think before he widens his jaw and bites deeply, ripping through muscle and cartilage and wrenching his head to the side as soon as he finds the jugular.

Blood sprays out in a hot arc that splatters all over his face and sinks into his hair. He’s completely drenched, using his broad body to block the worst of the arterial spray from getting on anything else. As a result, he ends up completely saturated; dark red dripping from his bangs and clinging to his eyelashes like tears when he slowly stands up and takes a step away from what he’s done.

“Oh my god,” Carl whispers, and Daryl closes his eyes but doesn’t turn around. He digs his chin into his chest, his shoulders tight and hunched until they’re almost at his ears as he nervously squeezes his hands into fists. He licks the blood from his lips, trying to ignore his body’s immediate reaction and the way he’s craving more of it—something that will sustain him for a good long while, that isn’t the pitiful offering of rabbits and smaller marsupials. The blood of another predator will keep him going longer than the blood of a prey animal, but Daryl has never liked thinning too much of the natural balance one way or the other. If he’d come across the bear on his own, he’d have let it live, but when Carl was thrown into the mix and his life was in danger Daryl didn’t give one iota of a fuck about preserving the pecking order.

“Daryl,” the boy whispers, and he can hear the sound of him slowly coming closer. He smells like fear, and he should, because who the hell goes around tackling bears and ripping their throats out? That is not at all normal human behavior, and he could have handled this so much better if he’d had time to think of another way to do it. “Daryl, holy crap that was so cool.”

_What?_

“You just came out of nowhere! And you tackled that thing and holy shit, did you just rip out a bear’s throat with nothing but your teeth? That was awesome!”

_What the fuck?_

“Daryl!”

Daryl freezes. Oh shit. Oh god oh shit that’s Merle. He’s coming, and the archer can hear Rick’s quick, heavy footsteps following.

“Carl!”

Breathing too quickly to be anything but panicked, Daryl spins around and looks at Carl, who is staring back at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. He hasn’t spent enough time with the kid, so he doesn’t know if he’ll even understand that Daryl is begging him to keep his mouth shut and say nothing. Out of ideas and out of time, the archer presses a bloody finger to his lips, catching Carl’s nod from the corner of his eye because he’s already running the opposite way.

 

 

 

“You are the stupidest goddamn fucker on this whole fucked planet, little brother,” Merle bitches as he dumps a pile of clean, dry clothes on a rock beside the river Daryl is currently submerged up to his nose in. His clothes were a lost cause, and right now he’s just lucky that he found somewhere deep enough for him to dive into and wash away the blood that had already started to turn tacky on his skin and in his hair. He was clean twenty minutes ago, but he has no desire to return to camp and face Carl or anyone else, because he’s got no idea how the fuck he’s going to explain this one away.

Letting his eyes convey just how much he agrees with Merle’s assessment of his obviously non-existent intelligence, Daryl swims closer to shore until he can dig his toes into the muddy bottom and stand up fully. He’s completely naked, having yanked off the clothes covered in the manifestation of his guilt and watched the current carry them away. Better that than walking into camp with too much blood and not enough excuses.

“No, seriously, you’re so fucking stupid. Just what exactly were ya thinkin’, rippin’ into that bear right in front of the kid?”

_I was thinking we’d be having a very different conversation right now if I hadn’t._

Merle makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, looking furious and concerned in equal measures as he throws a threadbare towel at Daryl. He catches it easily and doesn’t try to preserve his modesty as he makes his way up onto dry land, scrubbing the droplets of water from his skin a little too roughly and not even caring because the marks fade as soon as he makes them. Naked and damp, his hair dripping water that is a little dirty but thankfully not bloody, he picks up the clothes Merle has brought and starts to get dressed. As much as he’d like to lay himself out on a rock big enough to hold him and let the sun dry him off, he knows he’s going to have to face the music eventually and he’d rather get it over with sooner instead of later.

“Brain’s made of fuckin’ rocks. Or maybe there ain’t nothin’ in there but air, ‘cause ya know better, Daryl. Almost ten years of this shit, and you damn well fuckin’ know better!” Merle spits the words like he’s too angry to even hold onto them, spittle flying and his eyes darkened by his anger. “Could’a handled that a hundred better ways, but no, ya go and rip its throat out _with yer damn teeth_ in front of the sheriff’s _son_. Kids can’t fucking keep secrets for shit. Should’a just chased it off with some loud noise or somethin’, ya fuckin’ dumbass. Ten years and it’s a fuckin’ bear that does ya in. Way ta go, Darleena. Just fuckin’ genius.”

 _I didn’t exactly have time to come up with a plan!_ Throwing his hands up in anger and disgust, Daryl whirls to face Merle and shoves him back; bares his teeth and growls warningly. His brother has never been intimidated by him, not even at the height of Daryl’s bloodlust when he’s been witness to it in the past. Some part of him must realize that the archer refuses to hurt anyone he’s got a connection to, which is why he could kill strangers so easily, why he could put a knife in their daddy’s head without blinking. When it comes to Merle, though, he’s always been helpless to _really_ cause damage. Sure, he’s punched a little too hard a few times, has fractured bones and broken his nose, but Merle has always gotten in his own hits with no problem. The only difference is that Daryl heals a lot faster.

“Could’a figured out something better than that!”

 _What fuckin’ part of **I didn’t have time** are you not fucking getting?_ Jesus Christ, does Merle think there was even a fraction of a second for him to speed-plan before he got to Carl? _Wasn’t anything else I could think of on the fucking spot. It was goin’ in for the kill, Merle. It was either I killed it, or it killed Carl._

He conveys this the best he can, relying on facial expressions and agitated gestures before raking a hand back through his wet hair and ignoring the way his fingers yank on a few tangles that don’t give way fast enough. As if this argument isn’t bad enough, now they have to go back to camp and he has to face Rick. Carl’s probably already told him everything despite Daryl’s plea to keep his silence.

Merle’s right, he’s the biggest fucking idiot alive.

They keep walking, angry words lost to angry silence; the both of them tense and trying to rein in their tempers before they exacerbate everything further and boil over into a physical brawl. Daryl’s glaring out into the forest, which is the only reason he sees the glimmer of metal fences and the pale stone of a tower. Stopping, he reaches out and slaps at Merle’s bicep to get his attention, ignoring the warning glare that’s shot his way. As soon as his brother lays eyes on what he sees, they share a look and change direction seamlessly.

Stopping at the top of a rise, they look down the sloping green grass at the prison that’s sprawled out in the middle of nowhere, protected by fences higher than anything Daryl has ever seen. The yard is full of walkers that are milling around aimlessly, bumping into one another before turning and ambling another way.

“Guess this is the place Santa Claus was talkin’ ‘bout,” Merle mutters. “Didn’t realize we were gettin’ so close.”

They probably would never have realized, if they hadn’t taken a different route back to camp because of Daryl’s determination to be as far away from the others as possible when Merle finally found him and laid into him the way they both knew he was going to. They’re farther out than any of the others have come so far, which means they’re the first ones to lay eyes on it.

Looking at the prison, which is enormous and in pretty good shape from what he can see, he thinks about the baby growing in Lori’s stomach and the weary tension that is starting to fall over all of them the longer they go without any kind of shelter. None of them were meant for this kind of life, but they have no choice but to adapt now unless they’re willing to just lay down and give up. Rick’s the only one besides Merle and Daryl who is not only coping, but seemingly thriving.

If they can take this place, if they can get in and kill the walkers and secure it, then they don’t have to worry anymore. They’ll have two sets of fences to keep the walkers at bay, and walls that are built to keep monsters in but which can just as easily keep them out, if it comes to that.

“What do you think, little brother? Think it’ll do?”

Glancing at Merle, he sees the shadow of haunted times flicker across his brother’s worn, tired face for a moment before it’s gone. Merle isn’t on drugs anymore, and there are no correctional officers to heckle him—no other prisoners to be wary of. Turning his attention back to the prison, he tilts his head and looks it over once again. Those fields can be used for crops, and there’s a stream running along one edge of the massive clearing that they can use for water. They can set up irrigation ditches, dig trenches, find ways to set up rain barrels. They can make this place a home.

All they have to do is kill the walkers.

_Let’s go find out._

 

 

 

Rick is on him as soon as Daryl and Merle come into sight. The man approaches with speed and intent, and Daryl is already slowing to a stop and dropping his head, submitting to the aura that is rolling off of his leader in waves so palpable he’s amazed he can’t actually see them. Whining quietly in the back of his throat, he bites at his lip and has a second to glance at Merle before his brother is stepping away and the cop is sweeping in.

“Don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again,” he hisses, and Daryl barely has time to think _what the fuck_ before large, steady hands are grabbing his jaw and tilting his head up, and then Rick’s lips are sliding against his. Daryl has never been kissed before in his life, not by his mom or his dad while he was growing up and certainly never by anyone who thought maybe he was good for a fuck if nothing else. He has no previous experience with anything like this. All he can do is whimper and open his mouth, melting against Rick’s body and trying to press his distressed apologies into the other man’s skin through contact alone. No one says a thing about it, all of them just going about their business like it’s completely normal for their leader to be kissing their archer so hard his lips are already swollen and tender.

When Rick’s tongue slips into his mouth, curling against his own and stroking it, encouraging Daryl to respond, he fists his hands in the back of the man’s shirt and shudders so hard he’s amazed he doesn’t shake right out of his own skin. Even if he tried, Rick would piece him back together the way only he seems to know how, hands moving with reverence over skin that is more used to being damaged than cared for, his scars an afterthought not because of what they represent, but because they’re a part of Daryl and he’s more than the marks he cannot erase. Rick gentles the kiss, turning it from something possessive into something protective and loving. Daryl has never felt this cared for in his entire life, and he’s desperate for more of this particular brand of acceptance even as he realizes that they’ve got an audience who is pretending to mind their own business and give the two of them privacy in a spot where such a thing isn’t possible.

Breaking away, Daryl pants for air and wonders if he looks as dazed and drunk on Rick’s claim and his scent as he thinks. Everything is hazy, but not in a bad way that precedes him losing his grip on his humanity. This is the coming together of two parts of a whole that have spent their lives searching for their other half, and he feels light enough to be carried away by the playful breeze without even needing to be ashes first.

Tangling his fingers into Rick’s curls shyly, he glances around before pecking one last soft, damp kiss against the leader’s reddened lips, and then he backs away enough to calm himself down. Rick doesn’t let him go far, curling his fingers around Daryl’s wrist securely. It should feel confining, but it doesn’t. It feels like grounding and support, like submission in its purest and most enlightened form and knowing that he doesn’t have to pretend to be strong, can lean on Rick and know that he’ll be braced no matter what.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, and when he looks into the man’s darkened eyes he sees that the storm is calmer than he was expecting it to be—can neither scent nor sense any hint of anger or betrayal when he leans close enough for a subtle sniff. _I’m sorry for what I did._

“Carl told me how you saved him,” Rick murmurs, and Daryl wants to freeze, thinks he probably looks like a deer in the headlights, but his friend (partner?) is clearly not finished speaking yet. “He told me how you tackled the bear and cut its throat with your knife. He said you were a complete mess, which is why you ran off. You think I wouldn’t want to see you after what you did for my son?”

Fuck, Carl deserves a fucking medal. Daryl doesn’t know how he managed to pull that lie together, but he’s going to give that kid the biggest fucking candy bar he can find the next time he goes out scavenging with Maggie and Glenn instead of disappearing into the woods to hunt and feed.

“Are you okay, though? That much physical exertion can’t have done you any favors.”

Fingers brush gently over his side, feeling for the gauze Merle had almost forgotten to wrap around his torso again before they’d come too close to the camp to be spotted. Daryl nods shyly, reaching out to touch, yearning to, but losing his nerve halfway through and letting his hands fall back to his sides to hang limply. Rick has no such qualms, cupping the side of his neck and bringing him close enough for their foreheads to bump.

“I can never repay you for what you’ve done for us, Daryl,” he breathes into the space between their mouths. “You have kept us going, have kept us fed and protected us in ways we can probably never even comprehend. You’ve given so much for us.”

 _You have too._ He closes his eyes and turns to rub his temple against Rick’s hair, feeling the way the strands shift and brush over his skin. This time, when he reaches out, he makes contact; fists a hand in his leader’s shirt over his heart and uses that to bridge the distance between them. He can sense Merle standing guard, a silent protector of their moment until it can no longer be theirs. Daryl doesn’t want to let go, never wants to now that they’ve crossed this new line. He wants to run his hands all over Rick and feel the man’s hands on him in return. It’s a surprisingly innocent thought for something that should sound so sexual. That kind of intimacy is not something he wants to think about right now, not for a while yet, but this newfound desire has been steadily growing between them ever since the first day. He’s leaned on Rick more times than he probably should have, but not once has his need for some affirmation of his own existence been denied or treated with the cruelty he’d been handled with for so long.

How can one person who he’s known for barely a month already mean so much to him, when he’s known Merle his whole life and not even his brother has managed to change his perspective of things this drastically? Daryl isn’t stupid enough to think he’s anything remarkable, but he’s special enough to warrant the attention of the one man he should never have crossed paths with in the first place. He never would have, either, if the world hadn’t fallen into ruin. He’s a Southern boy, born and bred—raised in the mountains of Georgia and weaned on anger and pain; bathed in the cruelty of a battered life and removed from the society Rick lived in so easily. Beneath the imperfections of his skin, he’s got an unshakable faith that has lasted him even through all of the broken bones and shattered dreams. That faith has now been placed in Rick Grimes’ hands, the entire foundation of who Daryl is handed to the one person he trusts to mold it into something even stronger than he’d ever hoped to be without the fear of it being damaged beyond repair. The scars will never fade, but he knows Rick will do everything in his power to prevent new ones.

 _Come with me,_ he pleads, tugging gently on the man’s shirt and starting to back away. Gentle fingers curl over his, easing them from their tight grip and relaxing him enough for them to fall away now that he knows he’s not going to be left behind. Rick will follow him to the ends of the earth to make sure Daryl stays safe, he knows this. He’s known it all along, but Rick was waiting for him to take the next step when it was never the archer’s to take. He isn’t a leader, can’t even pretend that enough time and confidence will make him the kind of man others will follow without hesitation. He’s never wanted to be that kind of person, but he’s not a meek, frightened sheep. Daryl will not follow someone who cannot back up their talk with affirmative actions. He will not place his trust in someone who has done nothing to earn it.

No one else follows them when he leads Rick away into the forest, taking him to the prison so that he can see it for himself and make his decision. He already knows what the choice is going to be, and he’s ready to get his family to safety—his _family_ , because no one can be in such close quarters for so long and survive the way they all have without becoming a family. They’re all survivors, and every one of them has an area where they excel the most. For Glenn and Maggie, it’s going on runs. T-Dog has become the fastest at building a fire besides Daryl, and his serious demeanor often gives way to the playful nature none of them knew he possessed. Hershel is their medic, their voice of reason alongside Dale.

Every single one of them serves a purpose, and every single one of them has slotted into the mental category of family in Daryl’s mind. He used to think that family meant pain and carrying a curse you’d never be rid of, but these people have changed his mind. Family isn’t what you’re born into, which is something no one ever told him before. Family, true family, is what you make it. Your family doesn’t have to be your blood. Blood has never given Daryl anything but misery, anyway. None of these people want to hurt him, or each other. They’re focused on surviving, with and for each other, no matter what it may take.

That sure as hell sounds like what family should be to him.

Daryl brings Rick to the same rise he and Merle had found, the one he thinks gives the best viewpoint. While his leader looks down at the prison, his eyes churning, the archer sits and waits; leans against the man’s leg a little and sighs in contentment when a hand drops to rest on the top of his head. Nails scratch over his scalp gently, the action so calming that his eyes flutter closed and he slumps a little more into Rick’s leg. The thigh he presses his cheek against is as strong and sturdy as a walnut tree, braced and ready to take as much weight as he chooses to give. Daryl rubs his face against the scratchy denim of the older man’s jeans, humming softly and slipping into a state that is almost trance-like as fingers continue to run through his hair.

“I think this will work just fine,” Rick says a while later. He brings Daryl out of whatever space he’s slipped into with careful touches, a hand resting on his shoulder to make sure he’s balanced before crouching down beside the archer. He turns his head immediately, meeting the searching gaze with eyes that can barely stay open. Is this what love feels like? Or is this something even deeper than that?

Rick kisses him, and its softness and tenderness and everything that TV and movies always made love out to be even if he couldn’t understand how it could be real. Daryl nuzzles closer, kisses back with little coordination but plenty of sleepy enthusiasm. He lets Rick lead, content as always to follow this man and let himself be cared for by the one person he can trust wants to do so with the best of intentions.

It’s not a magical fix to everything, but it’s a good place to start.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group takes the prison, but it's not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HI GUYS. I was totally going to have this finished and posted yesterday, but The Walking Dead and The Talking Dead happened and I had to be at work by seven am today so it didn't. So I wrote five pages of this on my phone and got the rest done as soon as I could.
> 
> Here you go. Remember, I can't fix it if you kill me.

Standing in the main courtyard of the prison, Rick forces himself to take slow, deep breaths as he stares at Tomas and his little group. If the man really thinks he can just take command of what they’ve fought for, what some of them have _died_ for, then he’s stupider than he looks. And he looks pretty stupid right now, his cocky smirk and the challenging lift of his chin making the still-roiling darkness in Rick surge. The balance is uneven, kindness suffocating under the violence until he can find a moment to bring them back into alignment.

“You can’t have it,” he says simply, one hand resting on his belt while he gestures with the colt still gripped securely in his other hand. “We took this place. We _lost_ people.” _Dale. Andrea. T-Dog._ “You hid. You have no right to claim what you never shed blood for.”

He sees the tension in Daryl as his archer holds his crossbow at the ready, sunlight catching on the gleaming tip of the bolt he’s got loaded and aimed right at Tomas’ head. Shane has the muzzle of his shotgun pressed to the side of Andrew’s face, his dark eyes gleaming dangerously and his teeth clenched.

“We’ve been here since it happened,” Tomas snaps, going to take a step forward until a snarl from Daryl stops him. Rick watches the way his eyes flick over the silent man, weighing his options and deciding on diplomacy when a finger settles more firmly against the bow’s trigger. There will be no hesitation, not a second of doubt. Tomas may be a predator in his own right, a lean street mongrel who’s managed to survive despite unsavory circumstances, but he can’t come close to the level of lethality that rolls off of Daryl Dixon even at his calmest moments. His archer can bring down a fully grown black bear with nothing but a knife and his will. Compared to that, these prisoners are nothing but rabbits.

“Maybe we can work something out,” Axel interjects tentatively, clearly sensing that blood is close to being spilled. He’s the most submissive one of the group, a lightness to him that is missing from the others. The black man who calls himself Big Tiny has a glimmer of it left, but it’s not enough to sway him from his devotion to Tomas. The only other one with potential is Oscar, but he’s got a stoicism to him that makes it hard for Rick to get a read on his true personality.

“Y’all look mighty well-fed for bein’ trapped in that room so long,” Merle comments suddenly. He’d almost forgotten the redneck was there, standing with Daryl’s rifle raised and his finger relaxed on the trigger. His words hold merit, though, because after a second assessing glance Rick realizes that the man is right. These prisoners are far too healthy to have been suffering from hunger.

“You have food?” he asks, lowering his gun just slightly as he prepares to barter. If they want to stay, it’s going to cost them—he will not have them near his family without some kind of reimbursement. Daryl reads him easily and steps in to level his crossbow just inches from Tomas’ temple, offering the incentive the prisoner needs to listen to their offer.

“There’s only a little bit left,” the Hispanic man mutters, his brown eyes dark and angry. He knows he’s pinned down with no way out. Rick will shoot him before he makes it two feet, if Daryl doesn’t get to him first.

“Well, we’ll take half. In exchange, we’ll help you clear out a Block.” They’ve already cleared out C Block, and the others are settled there. They’d been sweeping the rest of the corridors when they’d stumbled upon too many walkers and had to find somewhere fast. They still hadn’t managed to escape completely unscathed. Andrea had been dragged down beneath a group of them, fighting ferociously until the end. Dale had been too consumed by his grief over losing the closest thing he’d had to a daughter and he hadn’t seen the walker coming at him until it was too late.

Hershel had been bitten trying to cover T-Dog, who had sacrificed himself in the end to give them the opening they’d needed to make it into the cafeteria. Rick had watched Daryl drag the veterinarian in, a rag in his mouth and a belt wrapped tightly around his leg just below the knee; already knowing what Rick planned to do before he’d even drawn his machete to start hacking the limb off. They’d worked together to save their friend, their focus unwavering until Tomas and the other prisoners had come out of hiding.

What matters now is that Hershel’s alive, and he’s damn well going to stay that way if Rick has anything to do with it. They need him—not just because he’s the only one with any medical experience and he’ll be the best one to help Lori through her labor when the time comes. He’s their voice of reason, the father to them all. He’s the one who always knows what to do and what to say to give them the strength to keep going. Rick is the leader, but Hershel is his council; his trusted advisor. Daryl is his rock, his unshakable foundation; his right-hand man and his partner in every way that’s important. If he had a voice, Rick knows he would be able to follow it back from even the deepest shadows of his psyche. He learned a long time ago that his hunter doesn’t need words, though. Not when Rick can understand everything he’s unable to say as easily as breathing.

“We want C Block,” Tomas demands. Rick shakes his head.

“We’ve already moved into that one. You can have D.”

“We’re fair people,” the wiry prisoner says, playing at being reasonable but betrayed by the threat in his eyes and his body language. “We can give you time to get out. It’s only right, since you helped us.”

“What part of ‘it’s claimed’ ain’t you gettin’?” Shane growls. Rick glances at his friend and sees the way he presses his gun harder against Andrew’s jaw when the short black man opens his mouth to retort. “We’ll help you clear out D, and then y’all better damn well stick to your area like flies on shit.”

“If you come anywhere near our people, the deal’s done,” Rick adds, drawing the attention back to him. To prove how serious he is, he lifts his colt and presses the muzzle directly between Tomas’ eyes, looking at him with no trace of mercy. “You try anything and I _will_ kill you.” The words are growled softly but reverberate around the courtyard like a shout, burrowing into every crevice and lodging themselves there to whisper back the echoes of his conviction. “I will not hesitate.”

“We got a deal there, hombre?” Merle heckles, his face twisted into a sneer and his cheek resting against the polished wood of the rifle as he lines up his shot with a rude noise, just in case.

A moment passes where no one says anything, and then Tomas nods. “Yeah,” he agrees roughly, and Rick already knows he’s lying through his teeth, but they can deal with that after they’ve got the food safely tucked away in their Block. “Yeah, we’ve got a deal.”

“Alright then.” Lowering his gun, he steps back and gestures for the man to lead the way back to the pantry. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Merle laughs at that, and Shane shakes his head even though he’s grinning. The only one who isn’t amused is Daryl. His archer doesn’t lower his crossbow, his narrowed blue eyes darkened to navy as he prowls behind the prisoners like a lion stalking gazelle, just waiting for the moment to strike.

“This guy doesn’t talk much, huh boss man.” Andrew looks at Daryl, his lip curling slightly. “Got that whole ‘silent but deadly’ vibe down pat, dontcha buddy.”

“Oh, he talks plenty if you’re paying attention,” Rick replies, letting his lips curl into a smirk. Daryl glances at him, the tilt of his head unnoticeable to those who don’t know what to look for. He knows his hunter, though—knows him better than Daryl probably realizes. Or maybe he does know, their minds and emotions so in-tune that they don’t need to second-guess themselves as they fall into step beside one another.

 _What do you think?_ Daryl asks with nothing more than the twitch of his nose and the dip of his chin. His hair is getting longer, becoming shaggy and darker. It’s a look that suits him—makes him seem like the wild, untamed predator he is. He’s a lion amongst lambs, the flick of his tongue across his lips speaking toward a hunger that can only be sated by slaughter.

“I think Tomas is full of shit,” Rick muses quietly, slanting a look toward his friend and catching the agreement he already knew he’d see. “If it goes south, we’ll do what’s necessary. Wait for my signal.”

Maybe it should concern him more, that he’s already so willing to kill people and will feel no remorse for doing so. When it comes to his family, though, Rick already knows that he’s prepared to do whatever it takes no matter what the outcome may be. Blood stains his hands and runs over his skin like water runs over theirs, circumstance leaving little choice but for him to bathe himself in the life-giving liquid. He’s not the only one, though.

Daryl bares his teeth, and Rick notices for the first time that his canines are sharper than he’d been expecting when he catches a glimpse of them. It proves his thoughts about the man’s predatory nature, that even parts of his physical features reflect the beast slumbering within him. It doesn’t wake up very often, and for good reason. Rick didn’t get to witness Daryl in the aftermath of the bear until the man was clean again, but Carl had been very descriptive. When it comes to those he considers family, the younger man unleashes a violence that is not unlike Rick’s own, the two of them reverting back to their most primal instincts. It’s Darwinism in its purest form, the drive to kill or be killed controlling every decision they make when the darkness that is reflected between them like a mirrored image is sated but still alert.

Tomas steps aside when they reach the pantry, waving a hand dismissively in a ‘go on, then’ kind of motion. Rick eyes him, reaching out to calm Daryl before his archer lets out a low, angry rumble. The sound dies at the contact, cobalt eyes seeking his for reassurance and dropping away shyly when he gives it and more.

“You call this a little bit of food?” Merle scoffs, breaking the building moment between his brother and Rick the way only he can. Rick would be tempted to roll his eyes, but he finds that he agrees with the incredulous words when he takes a proper look around.

There are boxes and bags of bulk items stacked against the walls—everything from corn and potatoes to salt and flour. There’s even sugar, and plenty of preserved items and industrial-sized canned goods. It’s more than enough to last them a good long while, if they ration what they eat and Daryl supplements the rest with the meat he brings back from hunts. It’s been so long since he’s seen so much food in one place that he almost can’t believe it to be true. Then Merle snags a loose potato from a basket and bites into it with a crisp, firm crunch that is reminiscent of biting into an apple, and he knows it is.

“We’ll take our share back to C Block and help you clear D,” he decides. He wants to get this back to the others as quickly as possible, because all of them need a good meal after their struggle to clear the prison.

“Fair enough,” Tomas says, his voice even and his eyes angry. Knowing that trouble is already brewing, Rick sets his jaw and goes to sort through the food with Daryl at his side; his silent and ever-watchful shadow. They work seamlessly, no need for any kind of communication between them as they separate their bounty from the rest and set it near the door; every move synchronized and purposeful while the prisoners watch on. Shane and Merle are already hauling boxes and bags back toward C Block, taking back the first load and probably intending to grab a few helpers. There really is a lot of food, and all of it is needed.

“Alright then.” Rick rests his hands on his hips when their part is done, absentmindedly stroking the handle of his colt as he looks toward Tomas. “Ready to clear out your new home?”

 

 

 

The wall of the corridor is cold and unforgiving when Daryl shoves Rick against it; jarring against his shoulders and sparking pain down his spine. The archer stares at him, wide-eyed and trembling faintly. He seems uncertain, like he’s not quite sure what to do next now that he’s gotten this far.

Axel and Oscar are tucked away in D Block, probably still in shock after Tomas’ execution—there is no other word for it—and Andrew’s banishment. Rick feels no regret for killing the Hispanic man or chasing his cohort into a courtyard full of walkers. He’d warned them, and Tomas had tried to kill him anyway.

Daryl still looks so lost, toeing the line between feral and hesitant, so he makes the decision for his hunter; cups the back of his head and hauls him forward into a bruising kiss. As soon as they make contact, the most beautiful little whine slips from the younger man and he tries to press even closer, their bodies slotting together like imperfect puzzle pieces that still form a perfect picture.

Their lips move together, their passion blurring the line between force and tenderness as Rick twists them around so he can pin Daryl against the wall instead. He bites at his archer’s mouth, swallowing his hitching gasps and quiet whimpers and feeding Daryl his own deepening groans in return. Their mouths meet again and again, tongues curling around one another in a wet, messy tangle. Rick dominates the kisses, feeling the way Daryl all but melts against him and welcomes everything; the desperation with which he runs his hands down Rick’s sides before wrapping his arms around the former deputy’s back and clinging to him. He’s making the sweetest little noises, his hips rocking like he’s searching for friction that he gets when Rick slides a thigh between his, and he and hisses at the way Daryl clenches his own around it and ruts frantically.

“Easy, darlin’,” he rumbles, and Daryl shivers in response to how deep his voice has become. Petting through the unruly hair that really does seem to get darker every day, he gentles the next kiss and tries to soothe Daryl from the state he’s worked himself into. He knows why, knows how it must have looked when Rick had gone down under the weight of the walker Tomas shoved at him.

Daryl tucks his face against Rick’s throat, sobbing out the neediest keening noises he’s ever heard. It lights his nerves on fire, the desire to pin Daryl down and mount him, _claim_ him, so powerful that his vision goes black for a moment. The darkness has never been this close to the surface and yet so tame, his instincts roaring and his cock filling with blood. Daryl is hard and hot against the front of his thigh, the friction seemingly pulling him to pieces as he’s overwhelmed by emotions he’s not used to feeling so strongly, if he’s used to feeling them at all. Rick sees it when he coaxes him to show his face; his eyes are glassy, his pupils blown so wide there’s only a thin ring of blue visible. His mouth is open and wet, his lips swollen, and even in the murky shadows of the corridor Rick can see how flushed he is.

“Breathe, darlin’, c’mon,” he croons, stroking one stubble-rough cheek and fluttering gentle kisses against Daryl’s lips to try and bring him back from the edge he’s in danger of plummeting over.

Whining, Daryl bites at his lip hard enough to draw blood. He’s not sure why, but as soon as the taste is shared between them, hot and rich and coppery on Rick’s tongue, his hunter gasps and freezes; clutches hard enough at Rick’s shoulders to hurt and then shoves him away with more strength than he’s expecting.

He stumbles back and knocks his hip hard enough to grunt at the pain. Instinct and knowing Daryl, knowing how he’ll react, has him reaching out and latching on; digging his fingers into the firm muscles of the archer’s bicep and feeling it flex as the man tries to shake himself free and bolt.

“No,” he says, low and firm; refusing to let go when Daryl growls warningly. He can taste the blood leaking from his torn flesh, and sees that Daryl’s eyes are glazed over and too bright, almost seeming to glitter inhumanly. There’s a tiny smear of red along his bottom lip, and he flinches when Rick reaches up to wipe it away gently, eyeing him like a wary stray just waiting to be hit. “Hey, no, it’s okay.”

Daryl shakes his head, tugging weakly more out of reflex than actual intent. He’s not going anywhere and he knows it, not when Rick’s got him and refuses to let him leave until he figures out how they went from dry humping like randy teenagers to Daryl trying to run away. Something has spooked him, and Rick wants to know what it was. It can’t have been such a miniscule amount of blood. The hunter won’t stop glancing at his mouth, though, and the shine of his eyes is creeping more toward distress and farther from desire.

“Daryl, I’m _fine_ ,” he stresses, reaching out and cupping his friend’s cheek. There’s no flinch this time, no abortive twitch away in fear of retribution. Bringing their foreheads together, he licks his lips and feels the tiny pulse of pain when he tongues at the hurt spot. “I’m fine, darlin’. It didn’t hurt, not like you’re thinkin’. I liked it.” He smiles, trying to lighten the mood by nipping at Daryl’s lips; coaxing them open and nuzzling closer to breathe in every exhale as frantic panting eases to something slower. It takes a little more time of Rick peppering kisses across his face and nudging their noses—rubbing their jaws together likes wolves would and crooning as his hands brush the shake out of wire-tight muscles until they’re loose and liquid again.

When Daryl finally kisses back, soft and sweet like a gentle spring breeze that brings the promise of hotter weather, Rick strokes over the archer’s rabbit-fast pulse and presses a kiss there before leaning back to meet eyes that are once again as clear as the Georgia skies he loves so much. “Better?” he whispers, and the nod he receives is more like a nuzzle into his hand. “Wanna tell me what that was about, darlin’?”

Daryl shakes his head, so he nods and accepts that for now; can’t stop himself from brushing his thumb against the man’s thin, sensitive lips and swallows thickly at the tongue that just barely laps at the tip and catches a little on his nail.

“C’mon, we need to get back.” Rick gives Daryl some space, but refuses to fully let the archer go. He takes his hand, watching the way the man ducks his head and stares at their intertwined fingers like he can’t believe he’s ever done something to deserve this. “Gonna get you to stop thinkin’ you’re not worth it, darlin’,” he promises as he leads the way down the corridor, glad that they’ve cleared this one and don’t need to worry about any unwelcome visitors showing up and wrecking the peace they’ve reestablished. He can feel the rough pad of Daryl’s thumb rubbing against his knuckles, and it feels a little bit like wonder and a lot like hope.

One day he’ll make his hunter realize just how important he is, and on that day nothing will shine brighter than eyes that remind him of a clear, unbroken sky.

 

 

 

Their peace lasts all the way back to the courtyard, where Shane comes barreling toward them looking pale and frightened and everything that makes Rick reach out toward his soul brother immediately with his free hand.

“Shane, what-”

“It’s Lori,” the man says, cutting straight to the point and making the rest of the words that want to tumble free freeze in Rick’s throat. He grips Daryl’s hand tight enough for the man to make a quiet noise, and then fingers are pressing between his shoulder blades and nudging him forward.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, dragging Daryl with him and refusing to let go no matter what as Shane spins and speed walks back toward C Block.

“She’s having a miscarriage. Hershel says her body’s gone through too much stress. She hasn’t gotten the right nutrients, so it’s rejecting the baby because it won’t survive. She’s in a lot of pain, and there’s a lot of blood. You gotta come, man. Right now.”

All Rick’s whirring brain can focus on is the word _miscarriage_. He breaks into a run, still clinging to Daryl’s hand like it’s his only lifeline to sanity as the darkness rouses itself and clarity begins to slip away like ashes scattered by the wind. Daryl is a strong force by his side, their shoulders brushing with every other step as they run up the stairs and down the corridor—bursting into the common room and weaving around the tables before they enter the Block itself.

He can hear Lori crying out in pain, can hear Hershel’s lower voice as he tries to calm her and help her the best way they can. The only thing they can do is try to ease her pain and help her through it by keeping her hydrated and as comfortable as possible. They can’t speed up the process, they can’t reverse it—can’t keep that baby in her stomach and keep it healthy even though that’s all any of them want.

Maggie has tears running down her face as she lets Lori practically break her fingers. Glenn is standing behind the girl, a hand on her shoulder and tears in his eyes as well. Carol is crying quietly even as she wipes the tears and sweat from Lori’s cheeks and throat.

“Deep breaths, Lori, come on now,” Hershel is encouraging her. “You’ll get through this. We’re all here with you.”

“I don’t want to _get through this_ ,” she hisses through clenched teeth, her words choked and broken as her eyes meet Rick’s and fresh tears spill over like blood and loss. “I want my baby.”

“Lori.” Stepping forward, he looks at her, at the way her long hair is clinging to her skin and the way the blood stains the sheets and taints the air. Daryl chokes behind him, wrenching his hand away hard enough that Rick’s middle knuckle pops and he winces. He turns to catch the man, trying to keep him close, but he’s already gone. His departure is accompanied by the loud slam of the Block door and the fainter slams of every door between Rick and the yard. Torn between Lori and his hunter, he bites at the stinging wound left from Daryl’s passion and closes his eyes.

“I’ve got him, Rick,” Merle says quietly. Cracking open his eyes, he stares hard at the older Dixon brother, searching his face and seeing something that reminds him of sorrow but doesn’t quite manage to fully develop into it. “You stay where you're needed, Officer Friendly. Let me handle my little brother.”

 _Where you’re needed._ The problem with that is that Daryl needs him, too—might actually need him more than Lori does, because she’s got Shane for comfort and Daryl only has him and Merle when the man can stop being a jackass long enough to show a little care. The only one who truly needs him right now is Carl, who is hunkered down in the corner with his arms wrapped around himself and his head tilted down. Droplets of moisture drip from the tip of his nose, but he isn’t making so much as a sound even as his shoulders shake.

Merle heads after Daryl, and Rick edges around the others to reach his son. He rests a hand on Carl’s head, carding his fingers through his boy’s short, dark hair. Even though he’s twelve now, and a little bit too big to be picked up and carried around, Rick does it anyway. Gathering Carl close, he picks him up and walks out of the cell with him, saying nothing about the hot tears that soak into his collar and mark him with the manifestation of his failure.

He should have been better prepared—should have made sure Lori had the vitamins a pregnant woman requires to ensure her baby is getting what it needs. He should have kept a closer eye on what she ate.

_Would it have mattered, though? Stress can cause a miscarriage even with all of those things._

Sometimes Rick hates that voice of reason, because it’s always right. He still blames himself, though, because if he’d ignored Hershel’s hesitation and searched for the prison as soon as he heard it could be an option, they could have avoided this. If he had pushed a little harder to make sure they were ready sooner, instead of having to take the time to make absolutely sure, they wouldn’t have been delayed and Lori would be smiling and laughing instead of sobbing and trying to stifle her pain before it alerts any walkers that might have managed to evade their sweeps.

Sitting at one of the tables in the common area, Rick cradles Carl against his body and curls around his son the way he had back at the quarry when they’d been reunited. This time, though, he’s not looking at Daryl and trying to convey everything he cannot put into words. This time he’s clenching his teeth and closing his eyes so tightly it hurts, failing to keep the tears at bay no matter how hard he tries.

That baby didn’t even get a chance at life. It didn’t get a chance to feel the sun, or play in the swaying grasses out in the prison field while they watched and smiled at the way the sun shone down on it like the walkers didn’t exist. They all knew that this was the best it was going to get—that there would be nowhere safer for that little girl or boy to grow up than behind these fences and with all of them to raise him or her. That baby brought them all together in a way that cannot be described, taking the bonds they’d already formed and cementing them firmly as family.

There’s too much death in this world, too much ugliness. Maybe this is just a blessing in disguise, then, because what would happen to that child if the fences did come down and none of them were fast enough? They would have been forced to watch as walkers tore their little miracle to shreds, fracturing them in a way that couldn’t be mended and leaving behind ugly scars they couldn’t bear to see because it would remind them every time that they had failed.

“Why does it have to be like this, dad?” Carl whispers against his shoulder, too young for such brutality and yet already so much more mature than any child should be. Circumstances will allow for nothing else, though, because in this new world you either kill or you’ll be killed—Darwinism thrown back in his face in a way he’d never expected, because this really is the purest form of it. All of them are strong enough, so they get to survive. The baby was weak, and so it died and continued the cycle.

“I don’t know, Carl,” he chokes around the lump in his throat, the words mangled and barely audible even though he’s whispering them against his son’s temple. “I wish I did, but I just don’t know.”

 

 

 

Merle is tense and wound tighter than a spring when Rick tracks him down. He finds the redneck hidden away in a corner of the courtyard, a cigarette clamped between his lips as he sucks in long drags and blows them out like he’s trying to spit venom from his lungs. Daryl is nowhere in sight, and he already knows what that means even before the older Dixon opens his mouth.

“Gone. Probably killing innocent forest critters. Bet we’ll have enough meat to last us months when he finally drags his ass home.”

“You really think it’s safe enough for him to be out there alone?” Rick leans against the wall beside Merle; eyes the cigarette when it’s offered and takes it after a heartbeat of hesitation. He inhales the tobacco like he’s inhaling life, only coughing a little as his lungs readjust to tar and smoke that hasn’t touched them since before Carl was born. He takes another drag, feeling the nicotine hit him hard and relishing the woozy feeling it brings before everything settles.

“Trust me, sheriff. Ain’t nothin’ out there can kill my little brother. Not walkers, not people. Sure as hell ain’t gonna be killed by no damn deer. No, he’ll work through his shit and he’ll come home when he’s ready.”

“Either way, I don’t think it’s safe for him to be alone.” Lori has Shane, and Carl, and all of the others. Rick has them too. Even Merle has their support and care, if he’d let himself accept it. Right now, Daryl is out there with no one to bring him back from the brink; to chase away the beast that is clouding his thoughts and reducing him to nothing but that primal creature Rick's only seen glimpses of.

“Ain’t safe for him ta be here, neither. Not with all that blood.”

It’s said quietly, barely above a whisper, but Rick hears it loud and clear. He frowns, flicking the ash from the tip of the cigarette before he passes it back to Merle and turns to look at the side of his face.

“Why does human blood make him react like that?”

Merle glances at him, only the miniscule twitch of his jaw muscles as he clenches his teeth letting Rick know that he’s surprised him. The ill-tempered man is a tough nut to crack, but he’s gotten better at reading him the longer they’re around one another. He’ll never be able to peel back the layers of masks that Merle wears as a self-defense mechanism, but right now that tiny tell is enough to let him know he’s hit on something important about Daryl. Now he just needs to figure out _why_ it’s important.

“What makes you think that, piggy?”

Rick ignores the jibe, knowing for certain now that he’s hit a sore spot by how defensive and wary Merle is being. “I’ve seen him skin more animals than I can count, Merle. He’s never cared once about getting their blood all over him. He just goes on like nothing’s the matter. But he accidentally cut my lip earlier, and I thought he was going to hyperventilate. And then when he saw Lori…”

“Why don’t ya track him down and ask him yourself, detective,” Merle spits. He drops the filter of his cigarette and grinds it out beneath his heel; jams his hands deep into his pockets and turns to walk away.

“Merle, what is he hiding from?”

“It ain’t what he’s hidin’ from, officer.” Stopping, the man turns just enough to glare back at Rick with one narrowed, glinting eye. “He accepted how things are a long, long time ago. He may hate it, but he can’t change it, so he accepted it and got on with his damn life like a real man.”

Rick grinds his teeth together, tired of riddles and just wanting some answers. He feels like Merle is trying to help him, trying to guide him to the solution without giving away the puzzle. He thinks over the words thrown at him with care, picking them apart. When the lightbulb goes on, his head snaps up and he meets the man’s gaze again.

“Who is he hiding from?” he asks, already rocking up onto the balls of his feet and readying himself to run. Approval flashes across Merle’s tired features, a crooked smile tilting one corner of his mouth up when he turns back around and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Ain’t that the question of the year. Why don’t you go find my little brother, and you can ask him that yourself. Way I see it, he ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. I been wrong plenty of times before, though. So let me just say this to you, Rick Grimes.”

Three steps and Merle is in his face, eyes burning into him and the promise of violence rolling from muscles that are intimately familiar with hurting and being hurt.

“If you hurt him, ain’t nowhere in this whole damn world you can run. I will find you, and I will kill you in the slowest way I can think up. You will suffer, pig, and you will not die quickly. I will make you feel every second of the torture I’ll inflict on you if you break my brother’s heart.”

Rick holds his ground because he has no reason to shy away, meeting Merle’s blazing eyes with his own burning gaze as the darkness rises in him like a tidal wave and hangs on the precipice, ready to throw itself over the edge with all the force of a tsunami and flood everything that gets in its way—drag it down into the depths and drown it with the conviction of a man who will do anything to keep his loved ones safe.

There’s nothing that needs to be said, so Rick just tilts his head and waits for Merle to nod before he steps around the man and runs down the gravel drive that winds through the prison fields and leads to the gates. He can hear Merle behind him, following to make sure the gates are secured behind him once he’s away from their protection and at the mercy of the wild and the walkers. He hears them close with a grinding screech and a clang but doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder and check, because Merle isn’t an idiot no matter how stupid he pretends to be.

The woods welcome Rick like an old friend, branches still heavy with fat green leaves bending beneath the weight of life like they’re reaching for him and guiding his way. He can’t track as well as Daryl, but he doesn’t need to be able to—not for this. For this, he just needs to follow his instincts, the beast rumbling as it reaches out with inky tendrils and searches for its other half. Somewhere deep inside of Rick, there is a faint echo of darkness that is like his own, but not completely. There are tiny differences between the two, and he latches onto them as he turns and heads west, towards the first water source he can think of.

Rabbits bolt and squirrels chatter in alarm as he runs past, his footsteps too heavy and his blood roaring in his ears as he follows a trail he can only sense. It grows stronger with every yard, getting closer and more insistent until it feels like it’s howling loudly enough to make his ears bleed. He can see the hint of a bridge taking shape between the trees, his instincts urging him faster and faster until his muscles burn and his lungs are screaming from the need for air he can’t fully draw.

Bursting out of the trees, Rick sees corpses and a rusty car with shattered windows. There’s blood splashed all over the body of the vehicle, a walker slumped against the left rear tire with a bolt protruding from the back of its head. Beyond the carnage is more blood, dark and fresh and spreading slowly in a widening pool of life that should never be so removed from the body it’s supposed to be safely contained inside of. Rick takes a step closer, the tip of his boot sliding through a little bit of the dark puddle, and manages to find enough clarity to look toward the source of this macabre form of art.

There, lying on his side with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and more of it spreading over his chest and stomach and a filthy bundle of blankets in front of him, is Daryl. His eyes are closed, his chin tilted down, and Rick has a horrible second where he thinks his archer is dead before those cloudy blue eyes slowly crack open and meet his horrified stare.

Clarity crashes into place, the roaring in his ears subsiding, and only then does Rick hear the wailing of the infant wrapped in the bundle that Daryl is cradling against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a jackass, I know. It keeps me awake at night.
> 
> GOOD NEWS THOUGH I DON'T WORK FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS SO YEAH.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick finds out the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOCALYPSE HUSBANDS.
> 
> But no seriously. These two are so ridiculous with how they're able to go from heartwrenching pain to absolute softness in so little time. I've seen it happen on the show, guys. It's like what the fuck you precious angels come here and let me hug you. Now go hug each other.
> 
> So I'm nowhere near done with this, which is both awesome and terrifying, because I really, really need to update Two Tickets so I'm gonna go work on that now here you guys go kbai.
> 
> I fixed it. Just remember that. >.> *runs*
> 
> QUICK NOTE: I know the family Daryl saved in the show was Hispanic but I changed things a bit because reasons so I hope that clears up any confusion there may be. ;w;
> 
> QUICK NOTE 2.0: So this a warning for non-sexual dubious consent and coercion, because Rick sortakinda makes Daryl do something he's not comfortable with/willing to do. It's basically a "We have no choice do it" but Daryl is a mess about it and yeah. So, warning. Be ready for the Feels.

The family was already dead when Daryl stumbled onto the bridge, Lori’s screams echoing in his ears and crushing him beneath the weight of his monumental failure. Christ, if he hadn’t let himself get so wrapped up in his thing with Rick, if he’d been paying attention like he’d sworn to himself he would, he’d have noticed that something was wrong. Maybe he could have fixed it and prevented this outcome; gone out himself to find whatever prenatal vitamins the woman needed to keep her and that baby strong and healthy.

The walkers had been drawn out of their feeding frenzy by his appearance, turning away from the corpses they’d been kneeling over and ripping into at the arrival of fresh meat. Daryl’s instincts had surged with something akin to a bellow, the world covered in a haze of red as he’d snarled like a rabid beast and started slaughtering anything that got in his way.

It was only after it was over that he realized he still heard Lori yelling. Only it wasn’t her he was hearing, the deep screams of a woman whose heart was breaking transforming into the terrified bawling of the baby he couldn’t save. He’d cocked his head to the side, listening with his eyes clenched shut and trying to determine if this was another trick of his mind in an effort to further highlight all of the ways he was ultimately worthless to the people who had come to rely on him. Now they could finally realize his ineptitude and throw him to the walkers the way they should have back in the beginning. It was nothing less than what he deserved.

The wailing continued, and he realized with dawning horror that he wasn’t hearing the manifestation of anything. He was hearing an actual baby, and it was screaming loudly enough that more walkers were bound to follow the sound to its source.

Daryl used the butt of his crossbow to shatter the windows of the car, searching frantically until he found the car seat buried under a few layers of blankets like that would ever be enough to hide the infant from the undead and their determination to find and feed on anything living.

The pain of hoisting himself in through the broken and jagged window didn’t register much in the frantic tumbling of his chaotic mind. He barely noticed the deep cuts, so used to similar agonies and too focused on getting to the screaming child.

It’s not until he’s leaning back against the side of the bridge, cradling the whimpering infant to his bloody torso and crooning soothingly, that Daryl realizes what he’s done. His entire chest is a torn-up mess, and his stomach is even worse. The lacerations are deep and bleeding too much to be even remotely safe. He can feel the strength leaving his body, leaking out onto the concrete as he slowly lists over onto his side. He keeps a hand against the back of the blanket to protect the baby’s head, still trying so hard to ease her distress until the moment the world starts to turn grey and keeping his eyes open requires more energy than he currently has available.

Daryl barely feels his temple hit the ground as he collapses the rest of the way onto his side. He curls instinctively around his precious bundle, determined to hold onto her until he either dies or heals enough that he can hunt for something large enough to replenish him. He hasn’t felt this weak and helpless since he was fourteen and his daddy took the belt to his back a little harder than usual for shooting out one of the windows when he was practicing with his crossbow. He’d thought he was going to die that day, some of the lashes almost deep enough to expose bone. They’d gotten infected later on, and Merle had been the one to hold him down and reopen the wounds to bleed out the poison and burn his ruined flesh with hydrogen peroxide and angry words about being less of a fucking idiot next time.

His daddy ain’t here right now though. It’s just him and this tiny life with the fast heartbeat and the rich, wonderful blood running through her veins. He’s so close, his head tipped down toward her. It would be so easy, and his mouth fills with saliva even as his stomach twists into knots of hunger and disgust.

Frantic footsteps pound over the pavement, coming closer and just out of beat enough with the baby’s heart to rouse him from the darkness he’s been sinking into. It takes a considerable amount of willpower for Daryl to peel open his eyes, but he’s almost glad he did when he sees Rick staring at him with a look of mingled horror and relief. Maybe he’s relieved that Daryl is dying and he’ll be free of him. Who would want some no-good redneck who can’t even keep an unborn baby alive, anyway?

“Jesus fucking Christ, Daryl, what have you done?” Rick’s words are thick and pained, his eyes glossy with unshed tears as he falls to his knees in the puddle of Daryl’s blood and reaches out with hands that shake only a little to help him sit up. The baby is still crying, her little face scrunched up and beet red as she wails at an impressive volume for something so tiny. Rick’s one hand cradles the side of his face, keeping him upright and giving him something to focus on, while the other cups over the back of his and helps him keep the infant’s head steady as he croons at her.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Stop your cryin’, honey, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

Daryl turns his head and presses his nose against the pulse point in Rick’s wrist, hearing the panic-fast thudding and feeling the flutter of it beneath his cheek. He nuzzles closer, too far gone to stop himself from dragging his tongue over the warm, living flesh. His fangs drop with the familiar quiet snick, and as soon as he recognizes what his tattered inhibitions are coaxing him to do, he shoves himself back hard enough to crack his head against the side of the bridge. His vision blurs from the pain and the tears, and he realizes belatedly that he’s making the quietest, most wounded noises he’s ever heard coming from anything.

“Daryl, we have to get you back to the prison. You need Hershel.”

He needs _blood_ , but he needs Rick to go away for that part. He’ll be find if he can just kill a buck, or hell, he’ll gladly take another bear right about now. That would feed him nicely. He tries to force his arms to cooperate enough to hand over the baby, who has seemingly cried herself to sleep. At least she’s not screeching like a banshee anymore, which is saving his ears from bleeding along with the rest of him.

Rick tries to help him up, and he moans in frustration; the sound fading to a whimper when he tries to lift his head and meet the man’s eyes. They can tell each other anything with just a look, and right now he needs his leader to _take the baby_ before his tentative grip on his instincts shatters and he ruins everything even further.

The only problem with this plan is that his fangs are out, and his mouth is open when he tilts his head back, and Rick’s eyes drop to them immediately. Understanding settles into place, no questions asked and no accusations thrown at Daryl like poison-tipped knives. Rick just takes the baby and walks back to the car, reaching in through the shattered window by her car seat and laying her down in it. Then he’s back, and either he’s suddenly gotten a lot faster or Daryl’s losing his grasp on the flow of time.

“You need blood,” Rick says, and it’s not a question. “Jesus, darlin’, you and me are gonna have a _long_ talk after this.”

Daryl tries to focus enough to figure out what Rick is talking about. His wounds are healed enough that the blood has slowed to a dribble, and he already knows he’s going to survive. He’s always been too stubborn to do anything else. Now he just needs the motivation to get up, and that’s around the time his vision clears and he sees Rick rolling up his sleeve.

 _What the fuck are you doing?!_ he thinks frantically, his mind a little less muddied and the desire for blood surging impatiently. This isn’t happening. This _can’t_ be happening. This is just some hallucination brought on by lack of blood and oxygen getting to his brain, and Daryl can feel the searing pain across his still-healing chest as it rises and falls too quickly from panic. Rick reaches out to touch him and he recoils, a pitiful whine slipping free as he shakes his head.

“Daryl, either you do this, or you die. I would go and find something else, maybe try to bring down a deer, but we don’t have the time.”

 _Then I’ll die_. He will not be even further responsible for the level of disgust Rick feels for him if he does this. For almost ten years, Daryl has killed and drank from animals and has stayed away from the siren song of human blood like it carried the plague. It smells so good to him, and he bets it would taste better than anything he’s ever drank from before, and that’s exactly why he refuses to let himself find out. He will not become the monster his family crafted him to be, dragged into the vicious cycle of addiction he could fall into so easily because the groundwork has already been laid out for him. Whether it’s alcohol, drugs, or blood, his choices are limited and the ledge is too thin for him to balance on properly. So Daryl had clung to it instead, holding on as tightly as he possibly could to keep himself from falling into a depravity there is no coming back from.

“You don’t have that option,” Rick growls, lifting his chin and forcing Daryl to look into eyes that are as dark and forceful as a raging thunderstorm. A firm press of fingers warns him not to look away, so he watches helplessly as Rick draws his knife and drags it along his inner wrist, dark red blood welling up and running down the gleaming silver steel; dripping to the ground in tiny droplets that would remind him of rain or tears if this entire situation wasn’t so goddamn fucked up. He whines, shaking his head, but he’s got nowhere to go when Rick crowds forward into his space and brings the scent closer until Daryl feels like he’s drowning on copper-tainted air.

_You can’t, Rick, please. You don’t understand. I can’t do this. Please don’t make me do this._

“Shhh, darlin’. C’mon, Daryl, it’s okay. You ain’t takin’ it without permission. I’m givin’ it to you. Please, just take it. I will not watch you die, not like this. You gotta drink, and then we’re gonna take that little girl back to the prison, okay? She’ll die out here on her own, angel, you know she will.”

Daryl shakes his head again, but he can’t take his eyes from Rick’s wrist and the blood that wells up out of the split flesh. He licks his lips unconsciously, his instincts flaring to life at the source of food so close to him. All he’d have to do is lean forward just a little…

_No!_

Rick growls, out of patience or feeling too much like they’re out of time, because he drags his fingers through some of the blood and then _wipes it across Daryl’s mouth._ He chokes on a whine even as his tongue slips out to lap it up like a puppy would drink water, messy and frantic and needing more but too terrified of the outcome to accept it.

 _Why are you so okay with this?_ he thinks, his fangs heavy in his mouth and the taste of Rick’s blood on his tongue reminding him of life and light and all of the things no Dixon has ever been worthy of. _Why are you asking me to do this?_

“Because I love you, angel.” Like it’s that simple to look past such a horrible reality. Like he doesn’t care what Daryl is because something still as foreign to the archer as love is enough to make all of it okay. Rick says the word love like it’s all that matters—not the fact that Daryl isn’t human and that he has to drink blood and that he might as well be a goddamn vampire even if none of the other stereotypical vampiric ‘weaknesses’ do jack shit to him. Rick gives him the word love like it’s a gift, and Daryl has no way to understand this level of devotion but no time to puzzle through it, because his leader is painting more blood across his lips.

_Because I love you._

It can’t be that easy.

“Drink, Daryl.”

God damn Rick Grimes, because he’s never been able to say no to him, and that tone leaves no room for argument when the man presses his bleeding wrist to Daryl’s mouth and holds his head in place with a gentle hand that cups the back of his skull. He licks tentatively at the blood smeared across the wide, tanned wrist, his eyes fluttering shut unintentionally as he moans. It’s not a pleasured sound, it’s something broken and full of loathing that tumbles past his lips even as they open wide around the wound. He drags his tongue along the cut, feeling the edges of the gash and praying that they’ll cut his tongue to ribbons as punishment for this unholy sin. He doesn’t deserve this, shouldn’t be doing this, and he tries to lean back after cleaning away every drop from skin that should never be hurt because of him.

“ _Drink_ , Daryl,” Rick says again, and this time it’s a clear order that makes him shiver and whimper even as he’s coaxed forward again, the man’s wrist against his mouth and fresh blood dripping across his tongue. “Bite and drink, darlin’, or I’ll find another way to get you what you need, and you won’t like it.”

Daryl closes his eyes tightly, water rolling like rivers down his cheeks and his hands shaking as he cups them over Rick’s flesh and guides his wrist, cradling his forearm and stroking his knuckles like he’s holding a baby bird and trying to keep it safe until he can return it to where it belongs. Rick doesn’t belong here, and Daryl doesn’t deserve to be here. The man should have left him to die and taken the baby back to Lori, but he’s here on his knees in the pool of Daryl’s tacky blood, letting his own dribble into the hunter’s mouth like sacramental wine at communion.

Rick really is a God, benevolent and kind to his followers and merciless toward those who oppose him. Daryl wants to please him, wants to do everything in his power to give him a reason to shine his smile that warms like the sun on flesh that is so wholly undeserving of it. Because he doesn’t deserve Rick, he truly doesn’t. No one should mire themselves in the tar that drags at Daryl like shadows and paints his ruined skin like failure. Here Rick is, though, letting the blackness stain his skin like a tattoo that can never be removed, and Daryl sobs at what he’s doing even as his fangs sink into meat and blood rushes to fill his mouth and slide down his throat.

“There you go, angel. Take what you need.”

Daryl doesn’t have the extra air necessary to whine, so he forces himself to open his eyes and look at Rick, begging for the forgiveness he’ll never be deserving of when it comes from the man who centers himself in the archer’s universe like the sun and shines on every dark shadow and fractured dream like they’ve done something to warrant such brilliance being bestowed upon them.

After a few swallows, he tries to stop. He tries to slide his fangs as gently from Rick’s wrist as he can, but the hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head tightens and a warning growl rumbles from the man. “That wasn’t nearly enough, Daryl. It can’t have been.”

_Can’t take too much. Can’t do that to you. I won’t, Rick. Please._

“It’s okay, darlin’,” the man croons, guiding Daryl back to his wrist like the north star guides sailors home. “Don’t you get it? I’d give you anything you needed.”

 _You shouldn’t_ , Daryl thinks, tears running into the corners of his mouth and mixing with the blood to form a flavor on his tongue that makes him feel cleansed and sullied simultaneously. He shakes his head, tries to turn his face away, but Rick will not be denied in this and he hears him growl again as his wrist is offered. Breathing heavily, Daryl licks at the punctures and the cut before giving in and biting. This time his moan is part disgust and part desire, because Rick’s blood tastes better than anything else on earth ever could, and he knows he could get addicted to the flavor of it far too easily if given half the chance.

If Daryl takes as much as he needs, Rick will die, and he absolutely will not let that happen. As soon as he feels strong enough to stand on his own, he pulls back and drags his tongue along the wounds. Instinct is leading him in this, saliva flooding his mouth and leaving shiny trails across damaged flesh. There’s something different about it this time, because after the first few licks he can feel the torn skin knitting back together with every broad swipe. When he pulls back to check it, there’s nothing but a faint smear of red to even hint at what happened.

Rick is looking at his wrist too, head tilted curiously. “Well, that’s pretty handy,” he comments, smiling at Daryl like he’s just done the most amazing thing. It’s too much, his frayed and fractured emotions splintering the rest of the way as he curls in on himself and hides his face with his knees while he folds his arms over his head. Gripping his hair so tightly it’s painful, he shakes and gasps for air and tries to listen to Merle’s voice telling him to _straighten up, Darleena, and wipe them bitch-ass tears away. Didn’t raise no weak pansy motherfucker. Make me proud, little brother._

Strong arms wrap around him as best they can, pulling him forward against a body that warms the chills wracking him until they melt away like snow. He tucks his face into Rick’s throat, breathing in his scent like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. It feels like he’s just drained a deer, and he took a pint from Rick at the most. His wounds are closed, his shirt is ruined, and he feels like he’s about to claw out of his own skin and undo everything that’s just been patched up.

“I’ve got you, angel, it’s okay.” Rick is pressing kisses against his arms, nuzzling at them until Daryl can stop tearing his own hair out enough to let them be nudged away. He can’t look at Rick, _won’t_ look, because he’s so ashamed and so furious with himself and he doesn’t deserve any of the compassion and understanding he knows he’ll see if he glances over. The darkness in him has receded to a stable level, the beast curling up to slumber again and leaving him to face the music of what his instincts have made him do. “Daryl, look at me.”

Even drowning in his shame, he can’t ignore that tone, and he finally lifts his head to stare at the man’s nose. A hesitant flick of his eyes further upward gets him lost in eyes that are as dark as summer storms but as calm as spring breezes, nothing but compassion and worry shining out at him as a warm, gentle hand cups his cheek. He whines questioningly, nuzzling into the contact because even now, even knowing how much he’s fucked up, he still can’t force himself to deny any scrap of kindness his leader offers him.

“I love you, Daryl,” Rick whispers, bringing him closer and kissing him in a way that wipes away the sin that burns his tongue like damnation and soothes his exposed nerves with the warmth of absolution.

 _I love you so fucking much and I know I shouldn’t, but I_ do _and I’m terrified, because it’s going to kill me when you leave._ Because everyone always leaves Daryl. Even Merle left him more times than he cares to think about, miles away even when they were in the same room because his brother couldn’t stand to look at him and see his failures reflected back at him in the form of the dark bruises around Daryl’s young eyes and scattered over tender, innocent flesh. His mom left, burning herself and everything else until it was nothing but scattered ashes blowing away too fast for him to catch. Even his dad had left long before he was born, there in physical form but long-ago drowned beneath the weight of his circumstances and left to carry on a cycle no one cared enough to try and help him break.

The baby wakes up again, making tiny little sounds that he hears before Rick does because he always hears everything before anyone else. Those tiny gurgles quickly morph into louder whimpers, and he’s already pulling himself to his feet with the help of the bridge against his back and Rick’s guiding hands.

“C’mon, let’s get her back home so Hershel can look at her. We’ll find you something else along the way, too. I know you need more.”

Daryl is happy to comply, still marveling at the fact that he’s allowed to be so close to one who shines so brightly when he’s so shadowed in comparison. They make it back to the car and he reaches in carefully to unlock the door so they can open it the proper way this time. In no way, shape, or form is he going to do anything to cause any more damage that should have broken everything but somehow didn’t.

The infant only settles a little bit once she’s in Daryl’s arms, squirming and fussing and in desperate need of a change. He looks at Rick helplessly, but the man is crawling into the car to unhook the car seat and pile bags and bottles into it. He sees a few containers of formula, too, and knows they’re going to need a lot more than that if they’re going to keep her alive. It’ll have to do for now, and when Rick drags everything out and sets it on the ground, he turns to look at Daryl and sees the lost look on his face.

Smiling, he holds out his arms. “C’mon, angel, give her here. I’ll show you how,” he murmurs. With the baby in his arms, cradled securely against his chest, Daryl watches the look that comes across his face. There’s sadness there, but also the beginning of something the archer already knows will grow into a love stronger than anyone else can comprehend unless they have children of their own. Daryl already feels it in himself, and he’s got no experience with kids. He’s eager to learn, eager to do whatever it takes to protect this little miracle who’s survived despite the worst possible conditions, so he crowds in close and watches as Rick lays her down and untucks the blanket to keep her from touching the filthy ground. He changes her quickly, digging out a little bit of cream to rub on her reddened bottom to combat the rash already spreading from being stuck in her own mess. Daryl reaches out to touch her soft cheek, his heart swelling at the way she grips his finger with her fragile, tiny little hand and tries to suck on it.

 _No, baby girl, no,_ he thinks, hating the way she whimpers at being denied. God, he’s already in love and she’s not even his. As soon as she’s clean and swaddled in a fresh diaper, he wraps her back up to keep her from getting cold and cradles her against his chest the way Rick had. The man watches him with a fondness and affection that makes his cheeks turn pink.

“C’mon, darlin’. Let’s go home.”

 

 

 

Rick shows him how to mix the formula with bottles of water tucked into the diaper bag, and Daryl takes it upon himself to be the one to feed her as they walk back through the forest. She’s gurgling and making the most ridiculous fart-noises around the nipple of the bottle, but it’s so fucking wonderful to hear her sounds of life after the disaster of the day that he can’t help but smile and croon at her.

 _Gonna be a li’l Asskicker, ain’t ya, baby girl?_ he thinks. _Gonna wreck ‘em all and show ‘em who’s boss. Ain’t no one ever gonna mess with ya, sweetheart, ‘cause I’ll kill anyone who makes ya cry._

“Let me take her,” Rick says when they’re halfway home and the empty bottle is tucked away in the diaper bag. Daryl looks at him, hesitating, and the man chuckles in a way that makes him duck his head shyly. “You need to eat, darlin’. I can handle her for a little while, believe me. She’s a lot quieter than Carl was at this age. You can hold her again when you’re done.”

It’s hard to argue with that logic, so he carefully lays the infant in Rick’s welcoming arms and can’t stop himself from brushing a kiss against her wispy golden hair. After another moment of hesitation, he brushes one at the corner of Rick’s mouth and sighs happily when his leader turns his head to deepen it immediately. They nuzzle into one another, the baby safe between them, and Daryl knows he has to pull away before he can’t bring himself to leave. Stepping back, he bites at his lip and takes a fortifying breath before turning and melding into the forest.

With Rick waiting for him, he doesn’t waste any time. The trees are full of squirrels, and he can hear rabbits and other critters scurrying around. Knowing they need the meat anyway, he picks off a few young, healthy rabbits and an opossum—drinks deeply from them and carries the bodies back to where he left Rick once he’s sated and already moving more fluidly thanks to the strength that’s been fully restored to his limbs. After tasting Rick’s blood, the animals don’t satisfy him even if they leave him feeling full, but he refuses to let himself dwell on the implications or the possibilities that could come from having fed from a human.

Rick is waiting right where he left him, smiling and rocking the sleeping infant as he hums softly to her. Daryl slips into place at his side, feeling like he’s coming home even if he’s still not entirely sure of his welcome. Rick dispels his nerves with a kiss pressed to his jaw, relaxing him with ease that no one else can even come close to. They start walking, and he already knows what’s going to happen before Rick opens his mouth and lets the words tumble free.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Glancing at his leader, the archer worries his lower lip nervously and grips the strap of his crossbow with his free hand, trying to ground himself so this conversation doesn’t leave him stranded and trying to reach a shoreline that he’ll never be able to find because he’s too far out. Rick meets his nervousness with calm curiosity, arching an eyebrow and waiting.

 _Ain’t exactly somethin’ ya tell a person right off the bat. Figured y’all would think I wasn’t no better than a walker and kill me ‘fore I could try to explain._ Tugging on the strap, he adjusts his weapon more for something to do than because it needs it. One of the rabbits bumps against his leg with every step, and he realizes that he’s letting Rick carry both the baby and the car seat filled with supplies, so he reaches out to take the seat and free up the man’s arm so he can hold the little girl better.

“I wish I’d have known beforehand so I could have handled it better, darlin’. Thought I was gonna lose my mind when I saw you layin’ there like that. Thought you were dead, that I’d followed you just to find your body.” Rick shakes his head, adjusting his hold when the baby squirms in her sleep and pecking a kiss against her smooth forehead with an absentminded smile.

 _‘S gonna take a lot more than some glass to kill me._ Daryl smirks, but it’s not its usual level of snark because he can still remember the look that had been on Rick’s face through the haze of pain. He’d looked like his world was crashing down around him, like he’d failed, and now that he’s got clarity and understanding, Daryl understands that that look had nothing to do with his own feelings of failure. Rick is never going to cast him out—not after cutting his own wrist open for Daryl to drink from. They’re closer now than they ever were before after that, but he needs to be careful because he can too easily fall into a habit he wants nothing to do with. He swears to himself that he will never drink another drop from Rick no matter what it takes.

“At least I know now, darlin’. Can’t even say it’ll take that much getting used to, because you aren’t any different. It’s just that now I know a little bit more about why you do the things you do.” Rick smiles at him, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to something like that. He doesn’t even get the chance to, because Merle appears out of fucking nowhere with Shane on his heels and a look on his face that Daryl isn’t sure if he should classify as relieved or absolutely livid.

Shane is the first one to notice the bundle in Rick’s arm, his face fracturing open with pain and something else. Merle is too worked up, leaning back with his fist raised like he’s about to punch the former deputy across his face until Daryl slips between them with a snarl and his teeth bared. His fangs are out, his eyes burning and his muscles coiling as he warns his brother off. He hears Shane choke on his next breath when he sees his canines, but Merle freezes with his eyes fixed on Daryl’s mouth.

“The hell did you do, Darleena?” he whispers as his fist falls to his side and he stands fully upright. “What in the fuck did you do?”

It’s a valid question, because Daryl is still covered in his own blood and his clothes are a lost cause. His shirt is barely managing to cling to him because it’s so torn up, and he probably looks like he’s dunked himself in a bathtub because every inch of him is covered in tacky, drying red. He glances at Rick, cursing himself for not even thinking to at least wipe his face clean.

“There were walkers,” the man says simply, meeting Merle’s eyes in a way that makes Daryl’s brother relax with the realization of the words that can’t be said. “He heard this little one and went in to save her, and, well…. There were a lot of walkers. Can we go inside now? I wanna get her behind the fences before she wakes up.”

The words seem to snap Shane out of whatever daze he’s fallen into, and he nods quickly before leading the way back. Merle keeps looking at Daryl, his features flashing between proud and amused and downright annoyed—probably because he didn’t clean himself up and now he looks like an extra from some B-list slasher film.

Carl and Sophia come running as soon as they’ve closed the gates, neither one of them seeming to care that Daryl is literally painted in blood from head to toe as they throw themselves at him and hold on as hard as they can. He can’t really hug back because of the car seat and the dead animals, and he shouldn’t be encouraging them to touch him when he’s so filthy. No amount of nudging will make them let go, and he finally has to look to Rick for help. The man is too busy laughing, his eyes shining and his smile blinding as he looks on with so much fondness it makes the archer’s breath hitch and his cheeks flood with warmth.

“C’mon you two, give him some space to breathe,” Shane finally chuckles, and only then do they let go. Sophia doesn’t go far, looping her skinny arms around one of his and holding on. Carl moves to hug his father next, being careful not to jostle the baby who’s been woken up by the commotion and is watching them all with big eyes. The color reminds Daryl of bluebells, and he thinks it’s fitting that this little girl who lost her family was found by them in the woods that are more like home to the hunter than anything but Rick. It feels like the forest has gifted them this precious life to ease the sting of losing Lori’s child; Mother Nature taking care of Her own.

Hershel meets them in the courtyard, the click of his crutches a soft and comforting sound already even though it holds the reminder of much darker memories. The older man looks down at the child, then over at Daryl, drawing his own conclusions from what he sees and smiling in a way that makes him feel like he’s done something right instead of fucking up for once.

“Let’s get her inside so I can check her over. She looks pretty healthy, but it’s best to be sure.”

“Where the hell did you even find her?” Shane asks, hanging close and looking over Rick’s shoulder to keep her in his sights more than he’s actually paying attention to where he’s going. Daryl completely understands the reasoning, though, so he can’t fault the man for his distraction. He’s too busy ignoring Merle’s looks as they get more and more pointed. His brother is trying to coax him away so he can figure out what the hell happened, but Daryl isn’t ready to talk about it yet. He can still feel the lingering pain and shame, the horror of what he’d had to do threatening to overwhelm him anew if he spends too much time thinking about it.

“On a bridge, in a car. Walkers had killed her family, and she was crying pretty loudly. They were trying to get at her when Daryl found them. I guess he’d heard her, too.” A quick glance from Rick has him nodding, because that is basically what happened even if his tortured mind had it play out in a different way.

“Jesus Christ, man. Good call, Daryl. I’d have done the same thing.” Shane looks at him with approval, nodding his head, and he nods back. A lot of the tension has left the man since Daryl first saw him. He’s as light as he can be, considering the world and their situation, and the archer supposes that a lot of his agitation was from thinking he was going to lose Lori after Rick had come back. When that hadn’t turned out to be the case, he hadn’t had anything to get worked up over. They’ve all come a long way, and while he isn’t as drawn to Shane as he is to Rick, he knows he can trust the man enough to have his back if the situation calls for it. If Rick trusts Shane and loves him enough to call him brother, then Daryl has no problem with him.

The others are gathered in the common area, sitting in tense, heartwrenching silence and looking so defeated until Rick walks into the room and the baby gurgles loudly enough to draw their attention. Maggie is the first one on her feet, rushing forward with the faint trace of tears still drying on her cheeks.

“Oh my god, Rick, what happened?” she breathes as soon as she looks past the baby and sees the state Daryl’s in. He leaves their leader to retell the story, slipping past the others and going to stand by the heavy iron bars that swing open into the Block. He can’t bring himself to cross the threshold, hovering and looking in at the cell Lori and Shane share where he can hear the woman breathing slowly and deeply as she sleeps. There’s still the faintest hint of blood in the air, but it doesn’t fill him with panic or self-loathing the way it had when he’d seen her bloody and screaming as she’d worked through the miscarriage.

“She’s okay,” Carol says quietly, resting her hand on his arm. He turns to look at her, seeing the way tiredness pales her face and dims her eyes. They’re all exhausted, but none of them have taken the time to sleep yet. Maybe they should, because they’re as safe here as they’ll ever be and if they don’t get some sleep soon they won’t be strong enough to protect this home. “You need a shower,” the woman adds, a teasing lilt to her voice that makes his own lips twitch with the ghost of humor. He nods and turns away, trying to think of where he can go to get clean and settling on the creek just outside the right corner of the prison when Carol speaks again. “Daryl,” she says, and something in her voice makes him look back at her, waiting while she works her jaw and tries to put into words whatever it is she’s thinking. “Thank you,” she finally settles on, and he frowns in confusion. “I told you on the night we met that you’d already proved yourself, remember?” He nods, and she smiles. “You’re every bit as good as any of us, no matter what you were made to believe before. Some day you might even realize I’m telling you the truth.”

Daryl doesn’t know what to do when confronted with those words, so he just leaves after another awkward nod and gets out of the room before anyone else can try to tell him how supposedly worthy he is. Thankfully, the rest of his ragtag family is too busy cooing over their newest addition, making her giggle and fighting over the right to feed her. Beth is going to win, he already knows it, because she’s young and pretty and knows how to get her way. Not that it’s a bad thing, because her heart is too sweet for malice, but Daryl needs to be away from them right now and he figures cleaning himself is the best way to get a moment to just breathe.

“You’re really somethin’, you know that, little brother?” Merle chuckles at the way he scowls when he sees his brother waiting just outside the heavy steel door; sitting on the steps with fresh clothes in his lap like he knew exactly what Daryl was going to do and decided to wait for him. They head for the gates together, a flash of something at the corner of his eye reminding Daryl that Oscar and Axel are still living in D Block. They’re standing in their courtyard, right up against the fences, watching as Daryl and Merle walk down the loose gravel road and head for the part of the fences they’d cut open when they’d needed access to the prison. They’d tied it shut again with wire, keeping any walkers from being able to get in easily. Merle stands guard while Daryl unwinds the red cable, the two of them slipping out through the opening and pausing so he can tie it shut again before they head toward the creek.

“So did it really go down like Officer Friendly said? You heard that little baby and saved her from walkers and got covered in blood and guts and that was it?”

 _You know it wasn’t,_ he thinks, huffing as he strips out of his ruined shirt and peels his stiff, uncooperative jeans down his legs. As soon as he’ s naked, he wades into the creek and tries to find a deeper spot where he can hunker down and scrub himself.

“So what happened, little brother? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that man knows the truth, now, and Shane’s gonna know it soon enough too after that crap you pulled in the forest. What did he do, Daryl?”

 _He saved my life._ Pausing, Daryl stares down at the water running over his feet and lapping at his ankles, shivering from something that isn’t even remotely related to the cool, crisp feel of it against his skin. _I was dying, and he saved me, and I still don’t know why._

“You fed from him.” Merle says it softly, the words too rough to ever be gentle and more dismayed than surprised—like he’d already known this was going to happen; that Daryl would be too weak to deny himself anything when it came to Rick. “Oh, little brother, you’ve gone and stepped in it now, haven’t you.”

 _Don’t I fuckin’ know it_. Hunkering down, the archer starts to wipe the blood off of his body, his fingers lingering only briefly over the new scar that cuts across his abdomen. It’s still got a faint hint of pink at the edges, but that’ll be gone soon enough. Despite the fact that it’s one more scar on a body already covered in them, this one doesn’t feel like the culmination of years of hatred and pain.

This scar, put there in his frantic scramble to save the baby gifted to them by a universe that knows how to break as well as mend, feels like new beginnings, and Daryl cannot hate it when it means so much more than what it is.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lori meets the baby, and there's rooftop sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. THIS.
> 
> Not gonna lie, this was supposed to end a lot differently than it did. Like, it was supposed to be all sweet and loving and then it turned into this.
> 
> My muse likes to take me in different directions, it would seem.
> 
> MIND THE TAGS. ADDED NEW ONES.
> 
> I'm secretly not even mad though because god, I love needy Daryl who begs and just wants more. Yum.

No one questions Rick’s decision to wait for Daryl to return before taking the baby to Lori. She’s not awake yet anyway, and he knows they’re all enjoying themselves thoroughly as they coo over the infant and makes faces at her just to get her to giggle. Hershel checked her over fully and determined that she’s at least four months old, and after that Rick watched Beth feed her with a look on the young girl’s face he hasn’t seen yet. There’s a new lightness to all of them, something he was afraid would never find a place in the desolation of their lives. He’d hoped the prison would bring it out in this family they’ve made, but the loss of Lori’s baby shattered them in a way he was afraid couldn’t be fixed.

Daryl, though—sweet, beautiful Daryl, who is stronger than he probably ever gives himself credit for, has brought something they’d probably all feared was lost to them. He’s brought them hope, and none of them need to know that it was nearly at the cost of his own life. Rick still feels cold when he thinks of how pale the archer had looked beneath the blood that coated his skin. He’d thought the man was dead, and he knows that if he had been, then nothing would have stopped Rick from descending into the darkness and embracing it fully. The leader that came back to these people would have been one they would never have expected, and probably one they never would have allowed to stay.

That wasn’t the case, thankfully, but the events that took place on that bridge cannot be so easily forgotten. Rick knows he’s going to have to apologize to Daryl, and that they need to talk more about what happened. He does not regret his decision to let the archer drink from him, even though he saw how tortured his friend was about it. He truly felt like they had no other option, and he knows Daryl would have gladly died before swallowing even a drop. Rick took that decision away from him, and it’s not rape, but it’s still enough to make him feel sick to his stomach. He swore to Merle that he would never make his hunter do anything he didn’t want to do—that he would never influence his decision to benefit Rick. He’s not sure if this counts as breaking that promise, but it feels like a failure regardless.

“I know that look,” Shane says as he slides onto the bench beside Rick. His friend leans his arms on the gleaming metal table with a sigh, facing forward but watching Rick from the corner of his eye. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, brother?”

“Too fucking much,” Rick sighs. He drags a hand down his face and scratches at his beard; tilts his head back to drag his nails through the shorter hairs that spread down his throat. “I fucked up, Shane. I fucked up bad.”

“Did you now. And how did you manage to do that, Rick?” When those dark, searching eyes settle on his more fully, Rick drops his own away. He doesn’t want Shane to see what’s still there. Because what it boils down to is that he feels horrible for what he made Daryl do, but if a situation like that happened again, and he had to make the same choice, Rick would make it in a heartbeat. He’ll do anything it takes to save Daryl, no matter what. He just hopes that the younger man realizes sooner rather than later that he’s actually worth being saved.

“I had to save him, brother,” he whispers, shutting his eyes tightly and pressing his face into his palm. “He was dying, Shane. I couldn’t let that happen. I _won’t_ let that happen. He’s everything and more. I wouldn’t be here if not for him.”

“This some kind’a hero worship, Rick?” Shane edges closer until their shoulders press together, offering him comfort and settling in for a discussion that Rick isn’t entirely sure he’s ready to have. “The way he went at Merle earlier got somethin’ to do with all of this?”

“No,” Rick chokes out on a laugh, shaking his head. He lets his hand drop heavily to the table, pain sparking in his knuckles as they connect too hard. “No, this isn’t hero worship, Shane. God, have you _seen_ him? He’s gorgeous, and he’s got so much to offer. He just doesn’t see it, which is a damn fucking shame, because he gives everything he has and asks for nothing in return. He’s beautiful, brother, and so fucking sweet. His heart is just… I don’t want to say that he needs protecting, because that’s not right. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself, and I will not insult him by suggesting that he needs someone to protect him from _anything_. But Shane, I want to do it anyway. I want to protect him and help him heal and prove to him that he can do anything, that he can do _more_.”

“You want to love him,” Shane says, and God, if it were only that simple.

Rick shakes his head with a smile. “I already do. And I told him that, out there on the bridge where we found the baby. I told him I love him, and then I made him do something he didn’t want to do, and I’m the worst person in the world for it.”

“And why is that? What could you have possibly done that was so horrible? ‘Cause Rick, I saw you two out there. He put himself in front of you and looked about ready to kill Merle if he so much as breathed on you wrong, and that’s his brother. That’s his kin. He didn’t even hesitate, man. So what could you have done to him that was so wrong? ‘Cause the way I see it is, you saved his life, and if anything you two came back with that baby stronger for whatever it was.”

Groaning in frustration, Rick drags his hands down his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If only it were that simple, Shane.”

“This got anything to do with him flashin’ those fangs?” Shane arches an eyebrow at him when his head snaps over. “Yeah, I saw ‘em. You probably didn’t, but he bared those fuckers right at Merle. Thought his brother was gonna burst a blood vessel when he saw ‘em. You know I ain’t one to judge, brother, but that was a little weird considerin’ he ain’t got teeth like that most of the time. So, you wanna tell me what that’s all about?”

Dropping his hands to the table, Rick gives Shane his full attention and tries to think of how to put everything into words in a way that will make sense and not make him sound like he’s losing his mind. He’s just opened his mouth to begin when Shane cuts him off, looking like he’s trying to stay calm but giving away his stress when he runs a hand back through his messy hair and yanks on it a little too hard.

“Don’t get me wrong, man, the guy’s great. He’s kept us fed and all, and I’m grateful. He’s also vicious and I’m pretty sure this sounds horrible, but I’m glad he doesn’t talk because I’d probably never recover from what he says. I mean, I felt like I wasn’t gonna recover back when he would just glare, after you guys showed up and he thought Lori and I were sneakin’ around behind your back. Dude’s got serious protective instincts, which is great when they’re not being focused on you.”

“Shane-”

“But man, is this gonna be a problem? ‘Cause we’ve got the whole group to think about, and now with this baby… I get that he’s your boyfriend or whatever, man, and that’s cool, but people don’t just go around sproutin’ fangs out of nowhere. It doesn’t happen.”

“ _Shane_.”

“Also please don’t tell him I said all of this, because really, I don’t have a problem with him. I’m just a bit freaked out right now and it’s been a hard day, and I just need to know that I’m not gonna wake up and find him crouched over someone’s body with their heart in his hands-”

“Shane!”

When Rick finally raises his voice, his friend snaps his mouth shut and looks at him. Rick would be offended that the man thinks he would ever let anyone dangerous that close to his family—that he would think Daryl would _ever_ hurt any of them that way—but mostly he’s just fondly amused at how wacky Shane’s thoughts can get sometimes. “Really, holding their heart in his hands?” he asks exasperatedly, and Shane shrugs uncomfortably. “No, Shane, you don’t have to worry. Trust me, Daryl will never do anything to put any of us in that kind of danger. He’s done too much for us to ever want to ruin that.”

“So I ain’t gotta worry about him suckin’ me dry like some kind of vampire?”

It’s meant as a joke, but considering that Rick can still remember the feeling of Daryl’s fangs sliding into his skin—the soft sucks as he drank the blood he willingly gave his archer and how it hadn’t even hurt, how _good_ it had actually felt—makes his smile a little more serious than he means it to be. And Shane, being one of the people who knows him best, doesn’t miss the look.

“Somethin’ else happen, Rick? Somethin’ I should know about?”

“Nothin’ like what you’re probably thinking.” Because he knows that look. Shane’s edging into protective mode, gearing up to go and beat a motherfucker black and blue if he thinks he needs it. Rick is perfectly fine, though, and he smiles as he props his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm. The smile drops quickly, though, when he takes a deep breath and tries to explain. “When I found him, Shane, he was dying. I think he’d been so frantic when he heard that little girl crying that he didn’t stop to think. He smashed the windows and tore himself up pretty good to get to her.”

“Obviously that ain’t what happened. So what did happen, Rick?”

“What happened was that he wasn’t acting right. I don’t know if it was completely from the blood loss, but then he looked at me and I saw those teeth and a few things that had been nagging at me made a lot more sense. I think Merle was trying to help me figure it out without outright saying it, because it sounds crazy, Shane. I know it does. It’s Daryl, though, and I know he’d never hurt me. He’d never hurt any of us. He damn near killed himself to get to that baby, and he’d never even seen her before.”

“Rick, a little less cryptic bullshit and a few more answers would be great right about now.”

“He drinks blood.”

There are a lot of better ways he could probably have said that, considering how fast Shane’s head whips around, but Rick feels like this needs to be treated with all the care one shows in removing a band-aide—rip it off as quickly as possible to get it over with.

“Don’t look at me like that. He never drank from people before. That’s why he always took so long when he was out hunting, I think. He had to feed himself with what he caught for us.”

“Hold up, you said ‘before’.”

“I told you, Shane, he was dying. And I didn’t have time to go out and hunt for a rabbit, brother. So I gave him my blood. He didn’t want me to. He tried so hard to refuse. I wouldn’t let him, though. I all-but forced him to do it, because I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t here anymore, Shane.”

Daryl had looked so horrified and disgusted by himself, even as he’d held onto Rick with so much care. He’d treated the whole thing like a fragile, precious gift that he was afraid of accepting but couldn’t live without, and Rick closes his eyes as he thinks of the tears that had trickled from those broken, tortured eyes. He remembers how the archer’s tongue had felt when it dragged over his skin, how the wounds had tingled a little before they’d begun to heal, and he swallows thickly. It wasn’t a sensual act—nothing about it was sexual—but the way Daryl had lapped at his wrist like that, the little curls of his tongue, is still so unbelievably erotic when he thinks back on it. Rick isn’t sure if that makes him the disgusting one, to feel the throb of arousal through his veins now. Daryl’s natural submission is too beautiful sometimes, and the fact that he only really embraces it when he and Rick are alone together makes his throat go a little dry. Jesus, what would he look like in the throes of ecstasy, if that’s what he looked like burdened by his self-deprecation?

“Well,” Shane grunts, snapping him from his thoughts easily. “If it was that bad all around, and you two still came walking up looking like teenagers in love, then I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. ‘Cause Rick, ain’t no way that guy isn’t completely in love with you. Not if he looked at you like that even after being forced to drink your blood to live.” A hand claps down on his shoulder, and Shane smiles at him in that easy, winning way that always makes people forget how much of an asshole he can be. People also forget that there’s more to Shane than just the egotistical jerk, though. Rick knows him better than that, and Lori does, too. No one who sees how he acts around Carl and Sophia can think that there’s nothing more to Shane Walsh than testosterone and an empty head. He can pretend all he wants, but he’s not fooling anybody.

The fact that Shane picked up on Daryl’s reaction to Rick, even if it was fleeting before Merle came charging at him like a bull in a china shop, tells him more than anything else, and he smiles in relief as he nudges his soul brother in return.

“Thank you. I just want him to be happy.”

“Ain’t no one out there who’s gonna make him as happy as you, Rick. Trust me on that one. Just do me a favor and keep it PG when y’all are around the kids.”

Shane laughs and accepts the punch Rick aims at him, and afterwards they lean against each other and watch Glenn’s face morph from trepidation to wonder as Maggie lays the infant in his arms for the first time.

“She needs a name,” Rick murmurs.

“She’ll get one, brother, don’t you worry. Gotta show her to Lori, first. Gotta let her see that hope is still alive.”

Rick nods and settles in to wait for his archer to return.

 

 

 

Daryl and Merle come back sooner than Rick expected, and his archer looks a lot calmer now that he’s in fresh clothes and lacking the layer of blood. As soon as they step into the common area, he heads right for Rick and settles beside him on the bench; leans against him a little and looks down at the little girl with a soft, warm smile on his face. Rick had taken the baby back from Glenn to feed her, and now she’s sleeping peacefully against his chest.

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly, and Daryl nods before hesitantly resting his chin on Rick’s shoulder to better see the child. No one says anything about it, and Rick turns to press a kiss into soft, clean hair. When he rests his lips against the shell of the younger man’s ear, he feels the way Daryl shivers and hears the quick hitch in his breath. “I told Shane, so that there would be no confusion. If you want the others to know, that’s entirely up to you, darlin’. I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to.”

When he pulls back, he catches and holds the eyes that flick toward him before they can dart away again. “Lori’s awake,” he murmurs to give his hunter an out if he needs one. “I was waiting for you to come back before I brought this little one to her.”

_Let’s go, then._

The choice is put on hold, but Rick knows it hasn’t been completely ignored. Daryl will do things his way, and when he’s ready, Rick will be right there beside him. Right now, the two of them stand up together and draw the attention of the rest of their family, minus Hershel, who is with Lori at the moment so he can check her over and make sure she’s okay. They’re all smiling, getting quickly to their feet as well, and Rick is about to start walking when Daryl shifts beside him and brushes his knuckles discreetly against Rick’s side. He looks over, tilting his head, and watches the archer bite his lip and look from him to the baby.

_Can I hold her?_

“Of course you can, darlin’.” He lays the baby in the younger man’s arms without a second of hesitation, watching how Daryl rocks her gently to dispel her soft noise of disgruntlement at being moved. He looks so natural standing there and holding her, a tiny smile hinted at the corners of his mouth and so much love shining in his eyes already that it takes Rick’s breath away. It amazes him that someone could still be so beautiful and capable of so much love after a life of nothing but the opposite. To Rick, that’s the truest form of strength.

Lori looks up when he walks into the cell, her cheeks dry but her eyes still red and threatening a new flood of tears at any moment. Hopefully these will be from joy instead of anguish.

“How’re you feelin’, Lor?” he asks quietly as he sits on the edge of the bed and brushes some of her hair back from her face. “Physically, if not emotionally.”

“Hurts either way, Rick,” she replies with a hollow laugh. She closes her eyes, and a single tear slips free. “God, I’m so stupid, to think I could actually have a baby in a world that’s like this.”

“You’re not stupid at all, Lori.” Bringing her close, he lets her fall against him and glances at Hershel. The older man is smiling, looking tired but happy when he glances toward the door. Daryl is hovering just out of sight, waiting for the right moment. “You know that baby would have been as safe as we could make it, with all of us here. It’s not stupid to want to bring happiness into a world that’s lacking it right now.”

“What am I gonna do, Rick?” She sounds so heartbroken, like she’s only breathing because she doesn’t have another choice—like a part of her died with the baby and she can’t find a reason to try and live again right now. If given the time to recover, he knows she’ll rediscover her will to live, because she still has Carl and Shane, and she still has him and everyone else. They’d be there to lift her spirits and remind her of what’s important. Right now, though, she’s grieving, so he rubs her back and glances out at where he can just see Daryl edging a little bit closer, the rest of the family gathered behind him impatiently.

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d be able to help me with something.”

Lori leans back and looks at him, confusion and worry creasing her brow. “What is it, Rick? Is Daryl okay? Did you find him?”

The fact that she’s so worried for his archer, that she’s shown no jealousy over the fact that Rick has found so much happiness with someone so different from her, makes his heart swell with affection. He smiles at her, standing up and motioning for his archer to come in. “I found him, and he’s okay. We just also found someone else who needs a bit of motherly love and care.”

When Daryl steps into the cell, looking nervous but determined, Lori’s eyes drop immediately to the bundle in his arms and one of her hands comes up to cover her mouth. The tears that had threatened to build well up and overflow as she looks at the sleeping baby. Daryl comes closer and crouches down so she can see the tiny, peaceful face better, and neither of them say anything when she reaches out to touch a soft, chubby cheek.

“Rick, where did you find her? _How_?”

“Daryl found her in a car surrounded by walkers. Her family was dead, and she was screamin’ her head off. He saved her, and we brought her back.”

“Jesus Christ.” Lori takes the baby, and Daryl lets her without any fuss, shifting so he’s pressed against Rick’s knee and they can watch how she rocks the infant and makes a soft, sweet sound. “Her family is dead?”

“She’s got no one but us, Lori. I know she can never replace the one that you and Shane lost, but I figured you might be able to help us with her better than anyone else. She’ll be ours, all of ours. Our little miracle.”

“Hey, baby girl,” the woman whispers. “You are a miracle, aren’t you, precious?” She hugs the baby close to her, tucking her face against the soft blankets, and takes a deep breath before she looks at them and smiles. “You have no idea what this means. Thank you, Rick, for letting me help.”

“It’s more like you’re helping all of us,” he chuckles, reaching out to brush her bangs away from her wet face. His hand drops to gently brush against the baby’s head, and she finally begins to stir with a quiet gurgle. “We’re family, Lori, no matter what. We help each other. And now she’s a part of this family, and we’re going to help her. We’ll keep her safe, no matter what.”

“No matter what,” Lori agrees, looking down at the infant’s face as the broken pieces of her heart begin to mend right before their eyes.

 

 

 

They leave Lori with the baby, the rest of the group eager to crowd in and fawn over the two of them while Lori feeds her. Rick and Daryl slip away, both of them more than exhausted by their stressful day. Rick doesn’t feel like he’s ready to sleep, though, and he can tell that Daryl feels the same way. There’s a subtle tension in his archer, and his pupils are wider than they should be when he looks at Rick and licks his lips.

“Show me where you sleep, Daryl,” he whispers, and the younger man shudders at the implications laced in those words. Rick watches him, watches how a faint hint of color darkens his cheeks as he leads the way up several flights of steps and out onto the roof. He’d known from the beginning that Daryl wasn’t comfortable sleeping in a cell, but he hadn’t realized that the man had built himself a little place on the roof. There are tarps hung up to protect him from the rain, and a nest of blankets that are messy and disorganized, like Daryl doesn’t bother to fix them after he rolls out of bed in the morning. Then again, he’s got more important things to do.

Daryl doesn’t fight or flinch away when Rick gently eases him down onto the blankets. He sees the corner of the blanket he’d used out in the woods, the brown easily spotted amongst the darker colors, and he smiles before leaning in to kiss the silent man. A soft whine shivers out into the air between them, and he can’t stop the way he rumbles possessively in response. Daryl grips his shoulder almost tight enough to hurt and drags him down, the two of them falling together. The archer spreads his legs and Rick settles between them, rolling his hips and swallowing the desperate cry that’s torn from Daryl’s throat when their cocks grind together through layers of fabric.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing the words against the hot, damp line of Daryl’s throat when he nuzzles against it and coaxes him into tipping his head back. He listens to the breath that hisses through clenched teeth in response, arching into the hands that grip the back of his shirt and tug him closer. “Wanna make you feel so good, sweetheart. Gonna let me?”

A frantic nod is his answer, another gasp breaking free from the heaving chest below him as Rick kisses his way back up to the wet, open mouth. He slips his tongue in, groaning when Daryl’s lips wrap around it and he sucks like he’s got Rick’s cock in his mouth instead. God is that ever a wonderful thought, and he growls as he bucks against the hips that lift eagerly to meet his; slides a hand beneath Daryl’s body to palm at the pretty curve of his spine before dipping lower to slip beneath the loose waistband of his pants. He presses finger between the clenching cheeks and rubs against the twitching hole, and Daryl’s head snaps back, his fangs dropping and his eyes wide and unfocused as he pants raggedly.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Rick rumbles. It takes a concentrated effort for him to pull away, and before Daryl can whine in protest he yanks the man’s shirt off and throws it to the side before pulling his own off as well. The archer’s nipples are so dark against his pale chest, the skin around them flushed a nice shade of red, and he can’t stop himself when he dips down to lick at the left one—taking the hard nub between his teeth and biting gently.

Daryl’s nails drag across his back as he keens, his hands fisting in Rick’s hair to keep his head in place while he abuses the younger man’s nipple until it sounds like he’s sobbing for air; Daryl's cock hot and twitching where it’s trapped in his pants. That won’t do at all, so Rick slides a hand down the trembling torso to pop the button and drag the zipper down before reaching into Daryl’s boxers and feeling how wet he already is.

“So eager, darlin’.” Switching to the other nipple, he sucks and licks and bites at that one, too, as he curls his fingers around his hunter’s cock and lets him rut frantically into the tunnel of his grip. When he looks up, still nibbling at the nipple in his mouth, he can only see the underside of Daryl’s chin because he’s thrown his head back. Rick loves that he’s so lost in the moment that he can’t even be bothered to stifle himself, and he’s glad they’re stories above all of the others, because it means that Daryl can be as loud as he wants. No one comes outside unless they’re on watch in the guard tower, and no one but Daryl comes up to the roof. They’re completely alone here, and Rick is planning on taking full advantage of that fact.

“I like that you can’t control yourself like this.” Sitting up, he looks down to where he can see the flared head of the archer’s cock every time it appears, each thrust smearing more pre-cum along his fingers and keeping his hand nice and wet so the friction doesn’t hurt. He squeezes experimentally, and his eyes widen when Daryl whines and bucks up harder as he comes suddenly, too overwhelmed and too inexperienced to have any kind of stamina. “Jesus, darlin’, just look at you. So wet for me. That’s it, give me all of it.” He pumps a few more times, squeezing out every last milky drop, and urges Daryl to turn over for him. When he’s got him on his knees, his face buried in the blankets from either embarrassment or anticipation, Rick pulls his pants the rest of the way down to get a good look at him. He doesn’t waste any time, using his hands to pull the man’s cheeks open so he can get a nice view of his fluttering hole.

Leaning forward, he drags his tongue against it, holding on tightly when Daryl jerks and cries out. His hands scrabble at the blankets, fisting them and holding on so hard his veins are standing out in sharp relief when Rick licks into him again—once, twice, three times, and then he buries is face in the crease and seals his lips around the pucker to suck and prod at it with his tongue, coaxing it into opening so he can plunge in even deeper and draw more of those fucking filthy sounds out of his archer. They’re muffled by the blankets, but he still hears every single gasp and keen and whimper, and he’s eager to see what other noises he can pull from Daryl when he’s too overwhelmed by his desire to be modest.

“There’s a little bit of a kinky creature hidden in there, huh darlin’?” Rick drawls as he finally pulls back and rubs his beard against the soft, sensitive skin of Daryl’s ass, grinding his chin between the tight cheeks and grinning at the muffled shriek the action draws. God, he’s never been with anyone who was this vocal. It makes the possessive beast inside of him rumble delightedly, knowing that he’s the first one drawing these sounds from Daryl.

He’s going to be the last person, too, if he has anything to do with it.

“Want me inside of you, angel? Want my fingers to slide on in and make you feel even better? Could fill you up nice and full. Bet you’d love that.”

Daryl pushes himself up onto his forearms and manages to look back at Rick, but he’s not sure if the archer is really seeing him. He’s lost in the sensations, overwhelmed by the emotions, but enough of it must get through because he nods rapidly and lets out the sweetest little moan Rick’s ever heard come from anyone.

“All right, darlin’. You just let me take care of you, okay?” Swiping his fingers through the cum splattered across Daryl’s skin, he bites his lip and nudges against the spit-slick opening; watches how it barely resists the way he pushes against it until he’s inside and tight, scorching muscles clamp down and flutter around him. He has to drop his free hand to his own trapped cock, grinding his heel against it and hissing at how fucking good it feels while Daryl sobs again and shoves his hips back. He’s too impatient to wait, or maybe it doesn’t hurt that much—maybe he’s too lost to feel the hurt, or maybe he even likes a little bit of pain to go with his pleasure. Either way, Rick watches the rest of his finger being swallowed up and bites his lip when he pulls out and Daryl keens as he tries to follow. “Easy, Daryl, easy. Just let me make you feel good, okay? You just lay there like a good boy and let me take care of you.”

Daryl whines at that and thrusts back again, another noise lost in the folds of his bed as Rick twists and curls his fingers to stretch the hunter and get him ready for more. There’s a bit of resistance and friction, but he knew there was going to be without proper lubrication. He just has to do the best that he can to not hurt Daryl, which is harder than he thought it would be, because the archer is insatiable. He’s begging with his body and his sounds, since he doesn’t have a voice, and he’s not satisfied until Rick pushes a second finger in, and then a third as soon as it’s safe enough to do so. He does nothing but crook and twist them, letting Daryl be the one to rock back and forth and take them in at his own pace for a little. Rick growls as he watches, pushing his pants out of the way enough to free his cock when his impatience surges.

“Need ta be wet, or I’m gonna rip you apart,” he whispers, stroking his free hand down Daryl’s back to try and soothe him a little bit. It doesn’t work, not the way he was hoping. What happens is that Daryl reaches back and grabs his wrist, shoving his fingers in harder until his knuckles are threatening to slide in, too. He thinks about working the man open enough to take his fist, shuddering at the images of this wild, untamed creature falling to pieces with Rick’s whole hand inside of him. God but that’s a pretty picture. Crooking his fingers, he finds the archer’s prostate and puts pressure against it, rubbing until Daryl chokes and comes again.

Rick catches as much of it as he can in his palm, smearing it across his twitching cock and dragging his fingers free from the hot, clenching body. Daryl whimpers at the loss of them, but he doesn’t have time to protest because Rick hauls him back until he’s sitting with his legs splayed on either side of the leader’s thighs, and carefully lowers him onto his cock.

He tries to be slow about it, he really does, but Daryl reaches back and grabs a fistful of his hair as he slams himself down and arches his back. He’s practically soundless now, his mouth hanging open as drool leaks down his chin; his eyes black from lust and completely unfocused. He’s trembling, his abdominal muscles flexing, and Rick has never seen anything like it before in his life. Daryl’s fangs are long enough that he’s afraid the hunter will rip his lower lip to shreds, so he watches carefully as he grips the man’s hips and lifts him up slightly before bringing him back down a little harder than he probably should.

Daryl jolts and groans, already wiggling his hips and clenching his muscles so hard that Rick’s eyes cross and he spits out a curse. “Ease up, sweetheart,” he mutters, but Daryl doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s too busy rolling his hips and riding Rick’s cock like he’s been doing it all along, his movements only a little jerky and uncoordinated. For the most part, he’s completely surrendered to his instincts, his back bowing in a beautiful arch and the hand not buried in Rick’s curls hanging limply next to his hard, bobbing cock.

“Just look at you. Could do anything to you like this and you’d just let me, wouldn’t you, Daryl?” The dark possessiveness in Rick makes him bare his teeth in a grin as he pushes Daryl forward until he’s on his hands and knees so he can surge up and fuck him from behind like an animal. The archer balls the blankets up in his hands again and shoves his face into them, sinking his fangs into the scratchy fabric to gag himself as he keens and bucks back into every slam like he’s trying to make Rick go even deeper. Pressing his chest to the archer’s sweaty back, he bites quickly at the nape of his neck before pressing his lips to the man’s ear. “Could fuck you again and again and you’d still want more, you greedy little thing.”

God, he’d never said shit like this to Lori. Everything between them was always slow and sweet. Daryl doesn’t want slow, though, and there’s only a hint of sweetness in the way Rick strokes at his flank before taking his cock and letting him rut into his hand again. Their love is hard and passionate, just like them, and despite how demanding Daryl is being, Rick can’t find it in himself to stop the archer from taking the pleasure he so desperately wants. It’s too hot to witness, seeing him fall to pieces until he can’t even be bothered to hold himself back like he usually would. There’s something freeing in seeing Daryl take what he wants so badly, while still ultimately submitting to Rick and begging for more.

“Want you to cum again, Daryl. Want you to get it all over my hand, and then I’m gonna cum in you and watch it drip out. Gonna carry the scent of me around with you for days. Never gonna let it fade. Bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Bet you’d love nothin’ more than to just always be filled with me.”

Daryl’s scream is choked off, his cock swelling a little bit before he comes again—all over Rick’s hand, just like he told him to. He smears it over his archer’s chest, painting his skin with Daryl’s own release before he bites down on the man’s shoulder hard enough to taste blood and comes inside of him as promised.

They collapse together on the blankets, both of them panting while Daryl still lets out little whimpers, his muscles twitching and clenching around Rick’s softening cock as he comes down from his overwhelming high and edges into overstimulation that makes his muscles spasm. Rick slips out of him and watches until some of his cum trickles out, rumbling in satisfaction before he licks and kisses apologetically at the bite mark that’s already healing. He laps up the hot, sweet blood and pulls Daryl against his chest even though they’re both filthy and covered in sweat.

“I love you so much. You okay though, sweetheart? Didn’t mean to be so rough.”

Daryl hums happily and shifts so they’re facing one another. He ducks his head shyly, which is ridiculously adorable considering he’d just been moaning like a whore while Rick fucked him through three orgasms. It’s so ultimately Daryl, though, the perfect representation of his archer, that he could be so desperate and wild and then still think he needs to ask for a kiss. Rick pulls him forward with a hand on the nape of his neck and presses their mouths together, groaning quietly and smiling when Daryl’s tongue licks at his upper lip before his archer nibbles on it.

When they draw apart, they don’t go far. Their noses bump and they brush kisses against each other’s mouths every few breaths, and even though the intensity has faded now that they’re calmer, it’s still there just beneath the surface. It’s there in the way Daryl whines softly when Rick pulls him closer and slips a leg between his archer’s thigh just so he can feel the way his cum is smearing across the insides of them. He feels it with how tightly Daryl wraps his arms around him to keep him close, his hips rocking unhurriedly and his cock soft and still dripping a little bit as their mouths meet in a slow, burning kiss.

Rick knows that it won’t always be like this. They’ll have hard, frantic fucking and slow, sweet sex. There will be making love and laying claim and everything in between. He’d wanted their first time to be sweet and slow, but he hadn’t expected it to be after Daryl had nearly died. That had added an element he hadn’t been going for, but looking at the aftermath, at the way Daryl looks deliciously rumpled and well-fucked, his darkened bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead and temples and his blue eyes still a little hazy, he can’t find it in himself to be too upset.

“Wanna stay up here for a while, darlin’, or do you wanna get back downstairs to the baby?”

Daryl thinks about it, fluttering kisses against Rick’s throat and nuzzling his steady pulse. He places a gentle, sweet kiss to that spot, and Rick understands him the way he’s always been able to, without any need for words to be said.

_Wanna stay here, just a little longer._

“Whatever you want, Daryl.” Pressing a kiss to the patch of skin closest to him, he feels the way his archer—his _lover_ —smiles, and he knows that the man understands what he really means.

_Anything for you._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Merle go out on a hunt. It doesn't end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws this at you guys and runs*

Carl is the one who names the baby Judith. Daryl thinks it’s perfect, and no one disagrees. She’s such a happy baby, always smiling and giggling at anyone who looks at her. She hasn’t had any kind of screaming fit since the day they found her, and considering the circumstances, Daryl can’t blame her for being a little upset. Since then, though, she’s been happy to just gurgle and wiggle and make baby noises, and damn it if it’s not the most adorable fucking thing he’s ever witnessed.

Having Judith to take care of becomes a saving grace type situation for Daryl, because as the days pass he begins to realize that drinking Rick’s blood has done more than just kept him from dying. And there have been too many awkward situations where other members of their family were involved. There’s nothing like trying to have a conversation with Glenn and convey the severity of something while simultaneously trying to keep himself from getting hard at the way Rick is staring at him from across the room and _thinking_ the filthiest things Daryl’s ever heard put into any kind of words.

Taking blood from Rick has opened the bond between them in a whole new way—one Daryl sure as fuck was never expecting. He can feel the man’s emotions more than he ever could before, and if Rick is focused enough on him, he can hear exactly what his lover is thinking. Which poses a problem when Rick is that focused on him, because then his thoughts are mostly about what he wants to do to Daryl. Jesus fucking Christ, the man’s a filthy beast, but the archer can’t pretend he doesn’t go wild for it when Rick pins him to the ground or pushes him against a wall and fucks him with varying degrees of intensity that never fail to make Daryl cum at least twice and beg for more. They’re just damn lucky no one else has stumbled across them yet.

Lori has Judith right now, and Merle’s on watch until it’s time for him and Daryl to go out on another hunt. No one needs him for anything important or life-threatening, which is great, because he’s currently on his back in his nest on the roof, his shop rag stuffed into his mouth and his nails clawing lines down Rick’s back as the man rocks into him so slowly he almost thinks it’s worse than being fucked hard and fast until he can’t make a sound.

“God, look at you, Daryl. You don’t even know what to do with yourself right now, do you?” his leader whispers into his ear. A few stray tears run down either side of his head while he clings tighter and weakly rocks his hips up for more—begging for faster and rougher because he doesn’t quite know how to take something as slow and sweet as this. It’s more overwhelming, in a way, especially when paired with all of the things Rick is thinking right now when his lover pushes himself up a little bit so he can get deeper and see the hunter’s face better. A warm palm cups his cheek, a roughened thumb rubbing away some of the tears, and Daryl’s whine is muffled by his makeshift gag as he nuzzles desperately into the touch before dropping his head back to offer his throat. “You’re so gorgeous like this, sweetheart.”

It probably shouldn’t affect him as much as it does to be called _sweetheart_ , but coming from Rick it’s the best endearment he’s ever heard besides _darlin'_ , and Daryl can’t stop the way he chokes on his next whine and comes between them harder than he’s expecting to. That’s at least the second time, and he goes limp against the scratchy blankets, tugging the rag out of his mouth and reaching to pull Rick down so he can kiss him and suck on his tongue like he’s wanted to since the man came out of the stairwell already shirtless.

Each slow, purposeful grind drags over every sensitive spot and sparks against his prostate perfectly, but Daryl’s not sure if he’s got a third orgasm in him today. He’s come more in the last week than he has in several months, and it’s amazing and overwhelming and perfect, but it’s also a little exhaustive. If he’s going to be any use on the hunt today, he needs to at least be mostly awake, and he knows if he gives Rick the opportunity that his lover will fuck him right into unconsciousness.

Clenching his muscles around the man’s cock, he moans into Rick’s ear and bites at the lobe, begging with the arch of his body and the roll of his hips for what they both know he’s desperate for. Rick gives it to him, finding his mouth for another sweet kiss as he shudders and groans and fills Daryl with his cum. He’s made good on his promise ten times over already, and the archer’s not entirely sure if he’ll ever _not_ have a little bit of Rick’s cum dripping out of him at any given time, but he can’t really find it in himself to be upset about that when he smells like Rick and gets to feel his lover’s claim in a way that is more secure and grounding than any hickey or bite mark could ever be.

Rick rolls them so Daryl’s on top, his thighs spread wide over his leader’s hips and his breath catching on a whine when the sudden shift pushes the man’s still-hard cock deeper inside of him. His hips buck, his head snapping back and his eyes going wide at the feeling of it, and he can’t stop the way he grinds down in response; his palms flat against Rick’s chest to help keep himself balanced as he lifts up and slams back down again.

“Easy, darlin’,” Rick croons, curling his fingers around Daryl’s waist to steady him and keep him still. “Breathe, Daryl. I know it’s a lot, but I’ve got ya.”

Gritting his teeth, he tries to pant through the aftermath of so much sensation until his muscles relax and his breathing evens out. He’d never known sex could be anything like this, and he whines when his lover finally slips out of him and he feels some of Rick’s cum trickling free and dripping down his balls. Jesus Christ, it’s so filthy and he loves it, loves _Rick_. Leaning forward, he presses their foreheads together and nuzzles closer in search of a kiss. It’s slow and sweet and everything that encompasses them, because there’s still a little roughness to it too when Rick bites at his lower lip and tugs, and Daryl nips at him in turn.

“I know you have to get goin’ soon, Daryl. Just wanted to have a bit of time with you before I don’t get to see you for a few days.”

Snorting, Daryl bites at Rick’s chin and drags his tongue against his lover’s beard, which backfires on him a little bit because the feeling of it against his tastebuds makes him shudder and clench down around nothing. Rolling to the side, he reaches for his shirt and pants and has to stop when Rick molds himself against his back and presses gentle kisses over his scarred shoulder blades.

“Be careful out there, Daryl.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, he arches an eyebrow and huffs. _I’m always careful._

“Just be on your guard anyway, okay? For me?”

God, Rick is such a sap sometimes. It’s nice that someone cares so much to worry about his safety when he doesn’t have to, though, so Daryl nods and sits up to pull his shirt on. Summer is slowly starting to edge into autumn, which means there’s a cooler breeze to help the sweat dry on his skin. It’s perfect weather to track and hunt, and he’s eager to be out on the other side of the fences again—so eager that he’s not really paying attention when he rises up onto his knees to fix his pants and grab his boxers, so he’s unprepared for the three fingers that slide inside of him suddenly. Choking on a moan, he falls forward onto his hands and fists them in the denim of his jeans as his head drops and his eyes flutter shut.

“Sorry, I know you’re supposed to be gettin’ ready, but it’s hard to behave when you look so good.”

 _Fuckin’ animal_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t try to stop Rick; actively encourages him by rocking back and arching his hips to try and get the man to hit the perfect angle. His cock twitches, blood rushing to fill it again like he’s still a hormone-driven teenager, and Daryl knows that he has to end this or he’ll never leave. Biting his lip, he whimpers one last time before regretfully moving away. He doesn’t give Rick the chance for more, pulling his boxers on and hissing through his teeth at the drag of the cotton over sensitive flesh. When the man reaches for him, he glares and nudges him back with a foot until he’s got his pants on and buttoned. Only then does he let Rick haul him up into a kiss, their lips sliding together and their tongues stroking instead of warring.

Merle is coming up the stairs with obnoxiously loud steps, so Daryl pulls back after one last gentle lick and grabs his crossbow. Rick doesn’t bother with modesty other than pulling a blanket over his lap. He’s lounging back against the ventilation unit, watching the archer go with soft eyes and a warm smile. It makes Daryl blush and squirm, reminds him that there’s more to Rick’s affections than just getting sex whenever he wants. And he wants it a lot.

 _Looks so fuckin’ cute when he blushes like that for me,_ he picks up from the tangle of thoughts and feelings exuding from Rick. There’s worry, too—more than there usually is. It’s like Rick is afraid something’s going to go horribly wrong, when all that’s going to happen is Daryl and Merle killing a deer or two and hauling them back for the rest of the family.

Judging how much time he has and deciding to take the risk, he walks quickly back to the man and crouches down, feeling the welcoming ache of a good fuck deep inside of himself and groaning quietly at the way his boxers are already clinging to his cum-smeared skin. His shirt is sticking to him, too, because he hadn’t bothered to clean his stomach and chest off before getting dressed.

Brushing a kiss to the corner of his lover’s mouth, he smiles and stands up just in time for Merle to bang on the door once before throwing it open and swaggering out onto the roof.

“Ready ta go, little brother?” he asks, thumbs tucked into his belt loops and his trademark smirk firmly in place. “Done gettin’ yer whistle wet so’s we can go out and catch some grub?”

Knocking shoulders with his brother, he snorts at him and rolls his eyes, but can’t hide his smile when he glances back at Rick—who is still naked and barely covered. Merle sees it, he can’t not, but he actually manages to keep his mouth shut until they’re stepping out of the gates and listening to Carl and Maggie drag them shut behind them.

“Lookin’ pretty cozy with the sheriff, little brother. You two still in the honeymoon phase? So tell me, ya give it to him good?”

Snorting, Daryl fixes his crossbow and starts walking, his eyes already sweeping over the ground to try and pick up any tracks. He’s hoping they find some deer—it’s been a while since they’ve had venison, and deer blood is richer and tastes better than smaller prey, in his opinion.

 _Don’t taste as good as Rick’s blood,_ a traitorous voice in his head whispers, but he shuts down that train of thought quickly. He will not think about drinking Rick’s blood anymore. He will not. It’s not going to happen again.

“Aw, c’mon, little brother,” Merle laughs as they wander deeper into the forest, not bothering to keep himself quiet just yet but always on the lookout for walkers. “Tell me, he scream like a bitch when ya rail him? Share with the class, Daryl. I tell ya all about mine.”

 _Against my will_ , Daryl thinks with a scowl. He tries not to remember countless retellings of whatever skinny, drugged-up whore his brother would nail and share every detail about; ducks his head and lets his bangs hide him as he tries to focus on tracking. If he looks at Merle, his red face will give him away. If he looks at Merle, there’s no way his brother won’t see the truth.

Sometimes Daryl forgets that not looking at Merle can be just as damning as actually looking.

“Holy shit,” his brother hisses, grabbing him by his shoulder before he can get away and spinning him around so that he has no choice but to meet the older Dixon’s narrowed gaze. “Yer shittin’ me, Darleena. Ya mean ta tell me ya went bitch for that guy? _Shit._ Thought you had more pride than that. Guess you really are a princess.”

 _Ain’t nobody’s bitch._ Daryl growls warningly and knocks Merle’s hand away roughly, getting in his brother’s face and baring his teeth. Even though that’s exactly what he becomes every time Rick looks at him or touches him or pushes inside of him. He’s not used to so much emotion, not used to feeling things like desire and want and need—not that strongly. He becomes the very thing he always used to sneer at when he’s beneath Rick, and the thing of it is that he can’t even hate being that way. He loves it too much, love how Rick can reduce him to such base, primal reactions. No one has ever done that before, and he highly doubts no one will ever do it again, if the day comes when Rick finally sees him for the trash that he is and casts him out with the rest of the garbage.

That doesn’t mean that Daryl’s going to sit back and let anyone call him a goddamn pillow biter, though. Least of all _Merle._ So he shoves his brother, his anger rising. As a result, he doesn’t temper his strength the way he should, and his brother smacks against the tree behind him hard enough to grunt and bite his tongue in surprise. The scent of blood floods the air between them, and Daryl hisses as his muscles turn liquid and his feet become silent. He prowls closer, crossing back and forth as he paces, and he can feel the familiar ache as his teeth get ready to drop when Merle raises the rifle.

“You don’t wanna do that, little brother.”

 _Yes you do_ , the voice whispers, and Daryl pauses with a growl. The world goes hazy but Merle comes into sharp relief, the sound of his elevating heartbeat thudding loudly in the archer’s ears. He watches the way his prey’s pulse flutters at his throat, the Adam’s apple bobbing with a thick swallow, and he purrs at the thought of that rich blood on his tongue; pouring down his throat in great big gulps as he drains the human dry. Licking his lips, he slinks a little closer; only hesitates when he hears the sound of the barrel being loaded and engaged*.

“No, Daryl.”

Snapping his teeth, he growls and circles the human, watching how his prey turns to keep him always in his sights. This one’s a clever one, knows the dance of the hunter and the hunted. He’s probably never been the prey before, and he’s cocky. His anger will make him fierce, will make his blood churn, and it will taste all the sweeter for it.

“Don’t make me do this, baby brother. Don’t make ol’ Merle put you down like some rabid mutt.”

_Merle._

The haze clears and Daryl freezes, whining as he hunkers down and rocks back onto his haunches. Jesus fucking Christ, what did he just do? He was just _hunting his brother._ He shouldn’t be hungry enough to throw his morals out the window that fast. He’s never fallen so quickly into that mindset, and _never_ about a person. He hunts animals, not people. So what the fuck just happened?

_You tasted human blood. That’s what happened._

Burying his fingers into his hair, he yanks and uses the pain radiating across his scalp to help center him in a way nothing else can. His breathing is fast and panicked, and when he looks up at Merle his brother is still holding the rifle at the ready, the muzzle lowered but his finger still curled against the trigger in case he needs to use it. They look at each other, wary and tortured alike, and Daryl whimpers in confusion and fear before the snap of a branch makes him whirl around. He stands quickly, reaching back for his crossbow just as three men come into sight amongst the trees, their own weapons raised and their muscles coiled.

“You boys look like you’ve seen better days,” the one in front comments, lowering his automatic weapon only a little and peering over the sight at them. He’s got dark skin and dark eyes—probably Hispanic—but his accent isn’t too hard to understand. Actually, he’s barely got one at all.

“Just been havin’ a rough time lately, is all,” Merle replies with a shrug, lowering his rifle the rest of the way now that the threat of Daryl going feral is diminished. It’s not gone completely, because he still feels it when he looks at the three men and flares his nostrils as he inhales their scents. They smell clean, and they look well-fed, and that dark little voice whispers, _They would make good meals._ He ignores it easily this time, his lip curling only slightly.

“Yeah, we’ve all been havin’ a rough time,” the leader snorts, dropping his weapon and standing up fully. He’s got broad shoulders and short hair, and when he cocks his head to the side and smirks, Daryl’s fingers twitch. “You boys got names?”

“Merle,” his brother says, and Daryl looks back at him before facing forward again and crossing his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunching slightly and his eyes dropping. He’s going for submissive, but it’s not as easy to sink into that mindset when Rick isn’t the one staring at him. His lover has no need to try and assert his dominance—it’s too natural of a thing. These men, though, are just rowdy boys playing at being bigshots. “This here’s my little brother, Daryl. He can’t talk.”

“He stupid or somethin’?” one of the other guys asks, sneering when he looks the archer over. Daryl growls quietly, his head snapping up and his eyes narrowing as his fingers twitch toward his knife. The man is tall and heavyset, and he’d probably squeal like a stuck pig the second the hunter went after him. All bark, no bite.

“Far from it, buddy. Could probably cut your ear off nice and clean just by throwin’ that knife’a his. Might wanna show a little respect ta a man who ain’t got much ta lose.” Merle chuckles and lays the rifle over his shoulder, freeing up a hand to gesture at them. “You boys gonna share your names, or do I gotta come up with some myself?”

“Name’s Cesar. Martinez,” the man in front answers, flicking a two-fingered salute their way. “This is Tony and Dave.”

“Y’all got a camp? Ain’t real safe, bein’ out here. You boys look mighty clean, too.”

“You don’t,” Tony mutters, his gun lowered but his body language far from relaxed. “You look like you rolled in pig shit.” His accent is Northern, without a scrap of Southern drawl. It gives too much away.

“Ain’t much chance ta shower out here. Can’t even remember the last time I had a real one.” Merle sighs wistfully, playing his part well. Daryl, meanwhile, shifts from foot to foot and watches the way Martinez eyes them up, something weighted in his gaze like he’s trying to come to a decision.

“We’ve got a community. A town,” he finally admits. “It’s a bit of a trek to get there, but you two look like you’re used to exercise. Ain’t much, but we’ve got showers and friendly folks. We’ve got food and electricity, too. We can give you a few days of rest, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Tony and Dave do not look pleased by the idea, and Daryl agrees with the sentiment. They have a camp, and they have a family. He doesn’t know what Merle’s playing at, but now is not the time to try and puzzle it out, either. Instead, he just shifts back onto his heels and lifts his head a little, watching the three men from beneath the shield of his dark bangs.

“Lead the way,” Merle laughs, striding forward and clapping Daryl heavily on the shoulder. They share a look, something the three strangers don’t manage to catch, and he hisses out a quiet sigh as he falls in behind his brother and listens to the four of them laugh and swap horror stories of how they managed to survive in a world that didn’t make it easy anymore. He listens half-heartedly, most of his focus turned inward as he tries to figure out how the hell he can stop what happened earlier from happening again.

“This town of yours. It got a name?” Merle asks.

Glancing up briefly, Daryl chews on his lower lip in lieu of his thumb and waits to hear what Martinez has to say. The Hispanic man looks back at them, his dark eyes catching the archer’s and lingering for a moment until Daryl ducks his head and looks away.

“It does, yeah. It’s called Woodbury. Our man in charge will welcome you formally when we get there. Just don’t make trouble, and trouble won’t find you.”

 _Well,_ Daryl thinks, rolling his eyes at the little speech and already knowing that the words of warning have fallen on deaf ears, _looks like we’re screwed._

 

 

 

Woodbury is a community tucked away behind fragile walls not even half as tall as the prison’s fences. It’s full of tidy buildings and perfect streets and clean, smiling people, but the scent of deception underlies every spotless inch of it. Daryl has never felt more like an animal in a cage. All he wants to do is pace back and forth across the room Martinez has ushered them into, his hackles raised and his muscles tense. Merle is too busy flirting with the doctor who is checking him over to try and ease his mounting agitation. She’s already tried to examine Daryl, but he’d just glared at her and rumbled dangerously and she’d wisely decided to move on to the friendlier brother.

“The two of you are lucky Martinez’s group found you,” she clucks as she takes her stethoscope out of her ears and hangs it around her neck. “You don’t look too worse for wear, at least. You got a camp or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’,” Merle chuckles. “Don’t worry about us, sweetheart. My brother’n me, we been huntin’ our own meals since we could walk. ‘S gonna take more’n some dead bastards ta scare us.”

Daryl twitches, feeling his shirt brush across his scarred shoulder blades and hating how easily the fabric moves—how naked he feels without the comforting weight of his crossbow. They’d had to surrender their weapons just inside Woodbury’s main gate, and Daryl would have walked right the fuck back out if not for Merle. His brother is scheming something. God only knows what it is, because he hasn’t seen fit to share his master plan yet.

The door opens while he’s turning from the farthest corner of the room, and he eyes the man coming in. Alarm bells start blaring in his mind immediately as his eyes rove over the clean face and the easy smile. The scent of blood is clinging to him, and it’s not his. There’s also a cruelty glittering in his eyes, hidden behind a poorly-fabricated mask of geniality. Daryl sees Merle tense subtly, and he’s glad his brother isn’t too busy trying to get laid to notice when there’s a new predator in their midst. This one is more dangerous than he lets on, but he’s got nothing on the Dixon boys.

“Hello,” the man says, tucking his arms behind his back and smiling easily as he tips his head in their direction like a true Southern gentleman. “You two look like you’ve seen some rough times.” His hair is perfectly coiffed and his clothes are pristine. Daryl swallows the growl that’s building in his chest and leans back against the wall to observe everything he can. The hunger pangs are getting more insistent, but for now he hasn’t got a choice but to stand here and listen to this wolf parading as a sheep.

“That we have,” Merle agrees, grinning easily as he leans back on his elbows against the table he’d been sitting on while the doctor checked him. “Mighty kind of yer friends ta offer us safety. That Martinez fellow’s a sharp one.”

“One of my best.” The man looks them over, his eyes lingering curiously on Daryl. “They said your names are Merle and Daryl. Everyone around here calls me the Governor. Their title, not mine.” He says it with a chuckle, probably going for sheepish but coming across more entitled than anything. Daryl’s lip curls just a little and his gums ache. Maybe he can hunt down a rabbit as soon as they’re away from this man—maybe he and Merle can fucking _leave_ as soon as no one wants to poke at them. He wants to go home, back to Rick and their family. This place is a trap, and he wants no part of it.

“Yeah. ‘M Merle, and this is my little brother.” A hand waves toward him, sweeping and dramatic, and he rolls his eyes. “He don’t talk. Dunno if they mentioned that part.”

“They had, yes.” The Governor looks at him and signs something. He arches an eyebrow and shakes his head, watching the way the man laughs a little self-deprecatingly and adjusts his tailored vest. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to offend you. There are a few people here who are deaf. Learning sign language has come in very handy.”

“Ain’t deaf, just don’t talk.” Merle’s still got that easy smile on his face, but his eyes are dark and wary. “Listen, don’t mean ta sound rude. We’re grateful ta yer boys for bringin’ us back, but we’re also pretty tired.”

“And hungry too, I bet,” the Governor adds. The smile never falls from his face, and Daryl’s beginning to wonder if he somehow glued it there permanently. He wonders what kind of monster hides behind it. He can still smell the blood clinging to the man, even though he’s clean and perfectly presented. “We’ll get you somethin’ to eat, and someone will show you where you can rest. Stay as long as you’d like. Curfew is sunset, though. The biters get more active at night, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We try not to draw their attention if we can help it.”

As soon as he’s gone, Daryl feels his tension ease enough for his shoulders to come back down. He’s far from relaxed, still wanting to pace, but without that man—the _Governor_ , and what an entitled prick he fuckin’ is—trying to fill the room with his pseudo Alpha-male swagger, the archer finds it easier to breathe. He needs to be outside, though, needs to hunt, so he glances at Merle and barely waits for his brother to nod before he’s out of the room and stalking down the hallway toward the door to get back out.

Sunlight spills across his skin, warming him and melting a little more of his agitation away. The breeze tickles across his skin, tugging at the hairs on his arms and curling against his nape as if it’s asking him to come and play. He breathes in deeply through his nose and lets it sigh out through his mouth, turning his face up into the light and closing his eyes for a moment. The feeling of eyes on him is a familiar one, back when people still saw the Dixon boys and muttered nasty things under their breath, or deliberately quipped them loud enough to be heard just to watch the fire of their tempers catch and rage.

Not waiting for anyone to approach him, just in case, Daryl turns and strides down the clean sidewalk, dodging people who turn to watch him pass or try to call out greetings. He can see Martinez’s dark head of hair bobbing along the top of the main wall and turns down a side-street that’s a little dimmer and completely empty. No one follows him, and he doesn’t feel that sense of being watched like a hawk, so he takes a minute to stop and try and breathe again.

Woodbury is not what it advertises itself to be. The Governor is not a kind, caring man. He’s not helping anyone out of the goodness of his heart, but the people milling down the street, laughing and bleating like sheep, are too stupid or too naïve to realize the beast that walks among them for what he is.

Daryl takes another deep breath and freezes when he smells blood. He smells _human_ blood, thick and heavy in the air, and before he can stop himself he’s already following it like he would follow the trail of a deer or a rabbit, his nostrils flaring as he sniffs like a bloodhound. He’s not hunting anymore, but he’s also not entirely sure what he’s doing as he slinks deeper into the darker shadows that hide at the edges of the community, nosing against the underbelly of a place that portrays itself as so bright and welcoming while it hides it secrets in the closet like any good, respectable politician who does everything he can to downplay his corruption from society in an effort to sway them to his cause.

The door he finds is plain and unassuming, but the smell of blood is stronger here. Daryl glances around, even though he hears no tell-tale heartbeats thudding faster with anticipation. He’s not being followed, so he tries the doorknob and feels his eyebrows go up a little at how easily it opens for him. As soon as it does, he has to stop and steel himself, because the stench of blood and pain and piss smacks him in the face hard enough to send him reeling back a little. Tucking his wrist against his nose, he breathes in his own scent to try and combat those as he steps across the threshold and closes the door quietly behind him. He follows the scent down a flight of stairs and through makeshift corridors of crimped sheet metal, his instincts keeping him alert and focused as he makes his way toward a fake door toward the rear of the building.

Daryl hears her heartbeat long before he sees her. It’s steady and slow, and it barely jumps when the door creaks open. He stares at her for several long seconds, taking in the bruises darkening her already-dark skin and the blood clinging to her thick dreadlocks in a way that speaks of time. There’s a cut across her cheek, and a few more down what he can see of her arms. Her hands must be tied behind her back—her feet are certainly tied to the legs of her chair. She looks at him with her head raised high, silent and proud and challenging even after everything she’s been through.

 _She’s a survivor, like us,_ he thinks as he steps into the room for a better look. His gums are aching, his fangs moments from dropping, and even keeping his wrist against his face isn’t helping him anymore, so he lets it fall back to his side as he prowls around the woman to see her from every angle. She follows him with her eyes until he’s out of sight, two predators eyeing one another until he’s out of her line of vision, although she doesn’t turn her head to follow his path.

Her wrists are tied crudely with rope, bruises and abrasions from rubbing easy to smell even if they’re not easy to see through the coils. Daryl huffs a soft, angry sound, and comes back around to crouch down a few feet away as they stare at one another again. He tilts his head to the side, trying to figure out how to communicate in a way that doesn’t involve words. She must be able to read his confusion and his frustration—and his rising anger—because something in her face softens and her lips don’t look so tight anymore.

“I’m guessin’ you’re not here to continue this,” she says, and her voice is deeper and raspier than he was expecting. Daryl shakes his head and rests his clenched fists against the ground, growling softly as his stomach cramps and his instincts clamor for him to feed. “You don’t look like them, anyway. Look more like I did, when I got here. Suspicious. Hungry. You plannin’ on stayin’?”

Daryl shakes his head again, baring his teeth. _Fuck no._ He and Merle aren’t fucking staying. They’re grabbing their shit and they’re getting the hell out of Dodge as fast as they can. They’re going back home, where they belong; back to the prison and people who don’t torture others for any godforsaken reason.

“Better get goin’, then. Probably don’t wanna be here when he and his lapdogs get back.”

Pausing, Daryl looks her over again, dipping his head and sniffing to try and get a better read on her. She’s a well of stoicism, her face carefully blank and her posture relaxed, like they’re just having a perfectly normal conversation in a living room somewhere. Her scent tells him more than her body language, right now—she’s hurt, and some of the wounds are infected. The one on her thigh is the worst—it looks like she was shot, or stabbed.

 _What the hell did you do to warrant this?_ he thinks, standing slowly and raking a hand back through his hair with a frustrated hiss. Is this what they do to people who try to leave?

“I killed the Governor’s daughter.”

There’s no emotion, not even a flicker of guilt, and Daryl steps forward with a snarl building. If she cares so little about the lives of children, then maybe she deserves what she’s brought upon herself.

“She wasn’t human anymore,” the woman adds, the first traces of anger spilling into her tone. “He was keeping one of those _things_ locked away, was feeding it and acting like it was still human. He knew better, though. Had her chained up and her arms bound. He thinks they can be saved.” She laughs, and there’s nothing pleasant about it. “He’s a fool.”

Daryl paces back and forth, trying to make a decision even though he knows he already has. This woman is strong, and fearless. He doesn’t trust her, but he recognizes the mask she’s had in place for so long that she probably thinks she’s happy being this way. Clearly she has some morals, to have done what she did. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she did it for some kind of revenge, or some other bullshit reason. Either way, he can’t leave her like this. Maybe Merle could, but Daryl has never been able to watch someone suffering. He spent too long suffering under his daddy’s thumb, too long being hurt and feeling the crushing weight of his own weaknesses and failures, to walk away without it damaging him later.

When he steps forward quickly, the woman lifts her head and eyes him like a lion caught in a trap, quiet and seemingly harmless until she doesn’t need to be. If it comes to that, he’ll just kill her, and hopefully he won’t feel remorse for it. He doesn’t know her; doesn’t care about what she’s had to do. He cares about seeing that it stops, so he works quickly to untie her hands and her feet and steps back as soon as she’s free, tense and waiting to see if she’ll roll over or lunge.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, soft and genuine. She rubs at her injured wrists and rolls her neck to crack it before standing. The smell of blood is almost overpowering now, and Daryl can’t help but watch as a little more leaks from the wound on her thigh. He wants to whine, wants to _feed_ , but right now he has more pressing matters to attend to. He needs to find Merle, needs to find their weapons, and then they need to get the fuck _gone_ before anyone comes along and realizes their prisoner has gotten free and vanished along with the two dirty rednecks hauled in from the woods like prized pigs.

After a few shuffling steps and a wince he wouldn’t have seen if he hadn’t been looking so closely, the woman straightens her spine and looks at him. “So, where to now?”

Good fucking question. Daryl jerks his head and turns away, leading her out the door and back down the silent hallway. He can hear the muffled chatter of people out on the streets above them—can hear the muted thumps of multiple heartbeats and swallows down the noise that wants to spill free. God, he’s finding a buck as soon as he gets the hell away from Woodbury. He’s not even going to use his crossbow for it. He’s going to kill it with his bare hands and drink every drop of blood it has to offer, and then maybe he’ll stop feeling like he’s about to snap and sink his fangs into vulnerable human flesh.

 _Never gonna be that kind of monster,_ he thinks savagely, his fists clenched at his sides as he finds the stairs and starts up them, hearing the woman’s breath hitch quietly as she follows him and tries to ignore the pain climbing causes. A softer voice—a damning voice—whispers at him, _You already are. You became that beast the second you put your fangs in Rick._

Maybe it’s because he’s at war with himself, or maybe it’s because he’s so drunk on the scent of blood while he’s at war with himself, but Daryl isn’t paying attention the way he should be. If he was, he would have heard the heartbeats coming down the alley toward the door he’s already got his hand on. Maybe he would have smelled their intent and the faint traces of the woman’s blood that still clings to their skin like a stain that it will take more than soap and water to erase. Maybe, if he’d been paying attention the way he _should_ have been, he would never have opened the damn door, would have grabbed the woman and run faster than they could ever hope to catch him.

Maybe isn’t worth shit right now, because Daryl opens the door and comes face-to-face with the Governor, who stills at the sight of him and frowns before letting out a sigh that rings with disappointment even as his eyes dance with cruel delight.

“I had high hopes for you, Daryl,” he chastises, and the archer growls at the feeling of being treated like he’s no better than a misbehaving child. His fingers tighten around the doorknob hard enough that he feels it starting to give, and he can’t stop the first flickers of panic and apprehension that turn his insides cold. “You should have stayed with your brother.”

Daryl snarls and lunges, forcing the men back. He’s caught them off guard, and he uses that to his advantage as he keeps them cornered in the back of the alley. A quick glance and a silent order, and the woman understands him easily. Her face is tight with anger, her eyes blazing like fire, but she goes as quickly as she’s able to, which is actually pretty quickly for someone who is probably dehydrated and certainly suffering from the aftermath of being tortured. She turns the corner and slips out into the bright, sunny day, walking with enough purpose that none of the harmless, unsuspecting people think to stop and question her.

He has a moment to hope that she finds her way out of Woodbury, finds somewhere safe, and then something smashes into the side of his skull and pain explodes across that side of his face. Daryl drops to the ground, spitting blood at the Governor’s feet and snarling like a feral beast as he bares his teeth at them.

 _Do your worst,_ he thinks, his lips curled back and his gums aching so badly it’s a wonder they’re not bleeding, too. He sees Tony raise the butt of his rifle, the corner already wet with Daryl’s blood, and snarls again before it slams down against his face. He feels his nose break, agony licking across his skin like lava, and he has one last moment to think of Rick waiting impatiently back home for him to return before the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I know fuck-all about guns. I apologize.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Shane go out to look for Daryl and Merle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a little short, and I'm sorry about that. I hope it's still acceptable.
> 
> *crawls away to curl up in bed*

Something’s wrong. Something is very wrong, and Rick can’t tell what it is, exactly. He just knows it has something to do with Daryl, and he’s been pacing the fences for at least two hours now, looking out into the woods and growling quietly. He’s attracted more than a few walkers, all of them hissing and trying to push through the barrier to get to his warm, living flesh. He ignores them, his fingers curled around the grip of his colt and his shoulders tense as cold sweat trickles down his back and the darkness in him roars.

He’s been noticing more and more since the first time he and Daryl had sex that he can sense his lover’s emotions better than he was ever able to before. He’s not foolish enough to claim he can hear the man’s thoughts, even to himself, because he never hears words. It’s more like he looks at Daryl and knows exactly what he’s feeling—how comfortable he is with a situation, how desperate he is when he looks at Rick sometimes and his eyes are already dark and needy. His archer is a creature starving for touch and love, and he can’t remember the last time he’s had sex so often.

Even at the beginning of his relationship with Lori, they were never like this. He never felt the burning need to sink so deeply into her that he would never come out again, not like he constantly feels with Daryl. There have been plenty of times just within the last few days that he’s pushed his lover into some dark, murky corner and watched him fall to pieces and bloom into something new, something greedy and so far from what Rick ever could have expected. He’s pretty sure he’s got marks on his back from how hard Daryl sometimes digs his nails in, and they fill him with a sense of loving pride and accomplishment when he feels his shirt scrape over them.

When Daryl and Merle had left on their hunt, something had been nagging at Rick. He’s always had a good sense of intuition, and even though it became harder to feel Daryl the further away he got, there was still enough of a link for him to feel when things first began to go wrong.

It started with hunger, something dark and violent and primal. Rick had been in the middle of feeding Judith when it hit him, and he’d had to hand her off to Maggie quickly before he scared the infant with how he reacted to his lover’s emotions. He’d still scared the others anyway, because his face had twisted into something angry and he’d growled at nothing while they watched on. Shane had tried to talk to him, had reached out to offer him comfort, but he’d shaken his head and left quickly as the waves of feral hunger beat through his body in time with the beat of his heart.

After the hunger it had been anger and revulsion, all of it tinged with fear. He could imagine Daryl so easily, how he would feel after that, and he longed to go out and track down his hunter—had been just about to do that when the revulsion had turned to suspicion, the fear flickering over into surprise and wariness.

_What’s going on, darlin’? What do you need?_

There had been no answer, of course, and Rick had had no choice but to pace helplessly and feel as the link between them got fainter and fainter until it was gone, snuffed out like a flickering candle being extinguished. He’d been thrown by the sudden emptiness where the archer had been, had been startled by how natural it had felt to him once it wasn’t there anymore. That place his lover filled echoed with nothingness, and Rick had become even more frantic. He’d headed out to the fences then, and he’s been prowling around the perimeter ever since, his eyes trained out on the forest as he strains to catch any flash of angel wings or the familiar silhouette of broad shoulders and a crossbow. He still can’t feel the archer, but it’s harder to make his mind understand something his heart already knows.

“What’s goin’ on, brother?”

Shane makes a lot of sound as he approaches, recognizing instinctively that being too quiet will make Rick react in an unfavorable way. He feels like he’s wound tighter than a spring, ready to snap. The darkness in him is too riled up, his anger and frustration mounting until he smacks the fence and makes it rattle as he growls through his clenched teeth. The noise stirs up the walkers even more, a few of them staggering along as he stalks away from the corner with the creek and heads back toward the guard towers and the main gate. Shane follows at a safe distance, offering comfort but understanding that some space is still required. Whether that’s for his own safety or for Rick’s remains uncertain.

“Something isn’t right.” Stopping, he tilts his head back and looks at Shane, wondering how dark and volatile he must be right now to have put that look on his soul brother’s face. “Shane, somethin’s wrong. I can’t feel him anymore, and what I could feel just before he got too far away wasn’t good.”

“You can’t feel him?” Shane, to his credit, sounds more confused than disbelieving. “What, like his thoughts and shit?”

“No, not thoughts. Couldn’t hear those. I’ve been able to _feel_ him, though, for a little bit now. I can always sense his emotions more’n I can sense anyone else’s. Even those are just little flickers of perception. With him, though, it’s his actual feelings. I don’t know why.”

“Okay, man, that sounds a little crazy. Ain’t gonna lie.”

Rick laughs, and it’s a hollow thing. “Crazier than him having fangs and needing to drink blood to survive? Crazier than the dead getting up and walking around if you don’t kill them properly the first time around?”

They’re valid questions, because nothing about this world is sane anymore. Nothing makes sense, so why should Rick being able to feel his lover’s emotions be the craziest thing they’ve ever heard of? Shane realizes the folly of his own words and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging a little at some of the curls. It’s getting longer, all of their hair is without anyone to really cut it. Carl’s starting to look a little bit like he has a mop on his head, and Carol has offered them all a trim, but only Maggie and Glenn have let her. Rick’s gotten used to how long his hair is, enjoying the way the curls brush against the top knob of his spine. The only thing he’s really tried to maintain is his facial hair, and even that’s getting a little wilder. Daryl seems to love it, loves licking at it and rubbing his face against the bristly strands, so Rick can’t really find it in himself to trim it down when it drives his archer so wild.

“So what was he feelin’, then, ‘fore he got too far away?” Shane comes closer, tilting his head slightly and waiting for Rick’s nod before stepping close enough for their shoulders to brush. They stand with their hands on their belts, shoulders back and heads raised, unconsciously mirroring one another the way they always used to back when they were still police officers. Those days are long gone, but the habits aren’t so easily broken.

Sighing, Rick rolls his neck to try and crack it as he turns his gaze back to the forest. “Nothin’ good,” he mutters. “I don’t know what happened, but he kind of lost it a little bit. He was so _angry_ , brother. So angry and hungry. Whatever happened to make him that way, it was nothing good. Then it was over, though, and he was horrified.”

“You think somethin’ happened to Merle?”

Rick shakes his head. “I think Merle had somethin’ to do with it, but I don’t think anything happened to him. I don’t know, it all went kind of fast after that. The horror, then the surprise, and then he felt really… I don’t know how else to say it, but, suspicious. And then it got fainter and now it’s gone.”

“So what do we do?” Shane looks over at him, eyebrows raised, and waits for Rick to make a decision like it’s just that easy. When he stares at his best friend, brows furrowed, the other man rolls his eyes. “Obviously you ain’t just gonna sit and do nothin’, right? Not while your boy’s out there and probably got himself in a bit of trouble along with Merle. If you can feel him like you say you can, Rick, that’s gotta mean somethin’. So what do we do?”

Squaring his shoulders, Rick looks out at the woods again, seeing shadows flitting through the trees and knowing that somewhere out there, his lover is possibly in a mess he can’t get out of without help. He already had known what he was going to do beforehand. He just needed someone to understand and validate his reasoning. No one has ever been able to do that better than Shane, before Daryl came along.

“We go get them.”

 

 

 

“Are you sure you don’t want anyone else to come with you?” Hershel asks for the fourth time as the family watches on tensely while Rick slings his pack over his shoulder. Shane is still saying goodbye to Lori, who had gone to put Judith down for a nap just before they’d come back inside. Looking at the older man, he shakes his head and sighs at the worry and resignation that falls across the group.

“If he’s in trouble, Rick, more people might make the difference,” Maggie presses softly. He can see their confusion, because he hadn’t really given much explanation past _Daryl and Merle might be in trouble. Shane and I are going to find them._ He hadn’t told them if he’d heard a whistle, or if he’d heard something far more sinister. None of them know what Daryl is, yet, because he’d promised his lover he wouldn’t say anything. He’ll be there for him when he finally comes clean, but until then, it’s not Rick’s place. It’s Daryl’s secret to tell, not his; all he can do until then is support his lover and give him all the assurances he can, because after so long, he knows that none of them are going to cast his lover aside.

Convincing Daryl of that is the hardest part.

“I’m not takin’ a group out if it turns out to be less serious than it is,” he rumbles, tightening the strap of his bag to make it sit better and looking at all of them with a stare that leaves no room for argument.

Glenn argues anyway. “And if it is? What if it’s really serious, and then it’s just you four? What if you need back-up and we’re all stuck here twiddling our thumbs?” He meets Rick’s stare evenly, lifting his head and crossing his arms. The young Asian man has come a long way since they first met one another at the quarry, but he’ll never be able to overpower Rick’s decision once his mind is set. Glenn is a lot tougher than some might give him credit for, and he’s completely loyal to his friends and family, but this isn’t something he can help with.

“Then I’m not going to risk losing anyone. My decision is final, Glenn. Shane and I are going. I need you all to guard the prison and take care of things here.”

“We can help, dad,” Carl protests, and Rick closes his eyes and tries not to wince. His son has grown too much in too little time, something about him speaking toward a harshness that should never be present in one so young. He’s adapted to the world far easier than he should have, and Rick can already see a flicker of darkness in his son that he knows he’s responsible for. Sophia is still so painfully shy and young, so bright in comparison, but Carl is too much like Rick. It should make him happy, but it doesn’t, because out of everything he wanted to pass on to his son, the dark beast that lives inside of him was not something that should ever have gone too.

“No, Carl, you can’t.”

“Ease up, kid, we’ll get ‘em back,” Shane cuts in before anything else can be said. Rick can see Carl gearing up for more, his eyes dark and glimmering with a hint of danger that makes him want to growl and assert his dominance, because like hell he’s going to take that kind of thing from his own offspring. Rick is the alpha here, and no one, least of all Carl, can challenge him for that rank. Maybe Shane could, if he really wanted to, but his friend is perfectly happy with his place in the family. He’s more concerned about keeping a lid on Rick’s rising aggression, which is why the man pats his shoulder to get his attention.

“This is bullshit,” his son mutters. Rick’s nostrils flare and his head snaps around.

“You watch your mouth!” he barks, the words tinged with a dangerous growl, and Carl’s eyes go a little wide before he ducks his head and hunches his shoulders submissively. Maybe one day he’ll have to worry about his son getting too opinionated to be put in his place so easily, but they’re not at that point yet, which is good. Rick feels like he’s at the edge, standing on the precipice and centimeters away from tumbling into the violent waves of his instincts. The beast is snarling, shadowy saliva dripping from its metaphorical jaws, and his eyes narrow as the world blurs a little bit. Deep inside, in that space that Daryl has carved out and made a home for himself in, he feels an answering flicker of pain and anger.

“We’ll be back, guys.”

Shane leads him away with careful touches, and Rick lets himself be herded out of the prison and down to the fences. He sees Oscar and Axel from the corner of his eye but doesn’t bother looking over; keeps his gaze fixed on the forest and wonders how something that had always seemed to welcoming before could suddenly look so ominous.

“Rick, you gotta get a lid on this, man. Can’t have you snapping and going after them like that. It’s just ‘cause they care, you know that.”

“Easier said than done, Shane.” He doesn’t mean to snap at his friend, but the balance is too tattered. Everything calm and collected has been drowned beneath the rising tide, and he feels the tsunami waves battering at the fragile hatches of what little peace remains, splintering it beneath the force of his violence while the beast howls and demands he find his other half and slaughter anything that gets in his way. “We have to find him, brother.”

“C’mon, man, just take some deep breaths. We’ll get him back, you know we will.”

Shane is trying to be as calm as he can, using that tone he always brought out back when they were dealing with traumatized suspects and trying to get a statement. Rick has heard it too many times in too many scenarios, and maybe it’s the comforting familiarity of it, but he manages to pull himself out of the rage enough to draw in a deep, steadying breath and unclench his hands from where they’ve curled into fists at his sides. He notices a little bit of blood dripping from his knuckles and realizes belatedly that he’s dug his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

“Rick, brother, you’ve gotta stay calm. What is it about this that’s makin’ you fly off the handle? Ain’t never seen you like this before.”

As they get farther away from the prison, Rick finds himself able to calm a little more. It’s nowhere near where he should be, or where he probably needs to be, but he’s able to think a little more rationally and figure out how to put his thoughts into words instead of just growling like some caged beast.

“I don’t know what it is,” he mutters, shaking his head like that will scatter the darkness and pull it into wisps to be carried away by the cool winds. “I just know it’s got everything to do with him, Shane. I have to get him back. I need him.”

Shane lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, nodding like he understands. “Alright then, man. Let’s get lookin’. You got any idea what way they went?”

Closing his eyes, Rick turns inward toward that place he usually feels Daryl from. He can’t say for sure if it’s actually in his chest, or somewhere deeper like his soul, but he focuses on it and draws in a deep breath.

_Where are you, darlin’? Help me find you. Help me bring you home._

The barest flickers of emotions brush against his searching reach, and he feels his own instincts react automatically—latch on and _pull_ , and he doesn’t realize he’s running until Shane hisses his name in surprise and gives chase.

“Rick!”

He can barely hear his friend, too focused on the faint, fluttering traces of Daryl he’s found and heading in the direction he feels them from. They grow stronger, emotions mixing in a tangled mess that he can’t fully decipher.

_Waryangryfearsuspicionconfusionhungerneed_

His lover is getting hungry, is somewhere where he can’t get to food easily. He’s caged in like a trapped animal, pacing at the edges of his enclosure and letting his discomfort be known. Rick growls softly, the darkness boiling like storm clouds and rumbling like thunder—the faint crack of lightning from Daryl enough to raise the hair on his arms as he skids to a stop and tosses his head, nostrils flaring and eyes wide and wild.

“Rick!”

Shane catches up to him, reaches out to grab him, but Rick’s too far inside his own self, pulling and pulling and wheeling left to head that way, dragging on the tendrils of Daryl’s emotions until they’re thick ropes. He tugs harder, growing frantic, and suddenly it’s like he’s thrown open a door and everything is pouring into him too fast for him to manage.

Rick chokes and goes down on one knee, clawing at his throat and almost thinking he can smell the faint traces of blood and urine and something else, something rotting and sickly-sweet. He wheezes, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of Daryl’s fast-paced _furyguilthungerhungerwanthunger_ , and he knows—now more than ever—that he has to find his lover and destroy whatever has made him into such a ball of writhing _panicangerfear_. He can’t hear Shane anymore, can’t hear anything but the distant thud of quick footsteps and the muted snarl of a rabid beast. He scrabbles at the ground, reaching for anything he can find to hold onto and anchor himself, and he feels Shane’s hand come down hard on his shoulder at the same time that pain erupts from Daryl’s end and lashes through the connection; sears across Rick’s temple and blinds him, and he doesn’t realize he’s screaming when another wave batters at his nose and cheeks with all the force of a boulder coming down, thrown by a merciless hand.

Darkness swallows him up, soundless and serene but for the quiet hiss of walkers and the fading echo of sorrow and resignation that’s not his own.

 

 

 

“Rick! Rick, shit, c’mon, man, wake up!”

Groaning, Rick tries to open his eyes only to be immediately blinded by the sun. He shuts them again, turning his head towards the shadowy area to his left, which he realizes is Shane when it shifts and hands come from that direction to cup his cheeks. A thumb brushes beneath his nose, leaving a wet feeling behind, and he wonders what the cause of it is before realizing that he smells blood. Opening his eyes again, he blinks blearily and tries to bring his vision into focus; sits up slowly and reaches up to touch his aching face to try and figure out what the fuck just happened.

“Did I run into a tree?”

Shane barks out a laugh that is too far into panicked to be at all humorous. “Christ, no, brother. Jesus, you just started runnin’, and then you dropped out of nowhere and started screamin’ like you were bein’ attacked. Tried to snap you out of it, and then suddenly you just dropped like a goddamn stone. What the hell just happened, Rick?”

“He’s hurt.”

Sitting upright, Rick gasps sharply at the pain in his face and ribs and looks around. He sees the bodies of walkers right away, and he knows that his screaming must have drawn them. Wincing, he rubs at his tender cheek and accepts the hand up when his friend offers it. None of the scenery around them is familiar to Rick. He doesn’t think any of them have ever come this far out in this direction—no one has been particularly keen on exploring too far from the prison yet, since they’re all still trying to settle in and turn the place into their home. Daryl and Merle are the only ones who travel through the woods. Everyone else sticks to the road when they’re out on runs.

Jesus, what the hell happened to put Daryl in that much pain that Rick felt each blow like it was actually happening? Who would dare lay a hand on his archer in such a violent manner? The beast inside of him snarls and nudges at the space his lover has filled once again, rumbling and searching for a response but finding none. Whatever happened, Daryl must have been knocked unconscious.

“How long was I out?” he rasps, his rising trepidation taking hold of his throat and making it hard to force the words out. This feels like a precursor to panic, but he can’t afford to lose his cool like that right now if he’s going to focus on finding his lover and bringing him home safely.

“Close to an hour. Scared the hell outta me, Rick. Kept checkin’ to make sure you were still breathing. Jesus, what the hell. This is all so fucking insane. You look like you went three rounds with a boxer, man. Your face is all bruised to hell, and your nose was bleeding a little.”

Well, that explains the wetness and the smell of blood. It doesn’t help him to figure out what the hell happened, though, or what state Daryl is in now if this is what Rick looks like. He’s trying to puzzle it out, trying to calm his quickened breaths and remind himself that Daryl isn’t actually human—that it’s going to take a lot more than whatever that was to kill him. That doesn’t mean he has to like it, though. In fact, Rick is rapidly becoming livid again, his eyes narrowing as his lips curl back like he’s a wolf baring his teeth. A growl rumbles out of his throat, shuddering through the air and ringing with the promise of retribution.

“We have to find Daryl and Merle, Shane. Now.”

“Think maybe I can help you with that.”

They both whirl around simultaneously, Rick’s colt already drawn and raised while Shane lifts his bloodied knife. They stare at the woman limping closer to them, their wariness reflected and multiplied on her face as she eyes them through the matted curtain of her dreadlocks with dark, calculating eyes.

“Who the fuck’re you?” Shane demands, taking a threatening step forward but halting as soon as the woman twitches away and brings up her hands like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

“How can you help us?” Rick asks, stepping in front of his friend and trying to rein in his volatile emotions. He meets her gaze and recognizes the predator in her at the same time that he recognizes she means no harm. Even if she did, she’s wounded badly and swaying a little where she’s stopped to brace herself against a tree.

“You said Daryl, right?” She tilts her chin up and flattens her lips into a thin line. “Quiet guy, dark brown hair, blue eyes?”

“Yes,” he hisses, stepping closer despite knowing it might not be the best idea. This woman knows where his lover is. She knows where to send Rick to find him and kill anyone that tries to get between them. “Where is he?”

“There’s a place, ‘s not far from here. Town called Woodbury.”

“He’s in a town?” Shane is frowning when he steps up beside Rick. “How many people?”

“’Bout seventy or so. Real pristine, picture-perfect place; protected by walls and guards. Run by a man who calls himself the _Governor._ ” She spits the title like it’s acid, like just having it in her mouth for those scant heartbeats was enough to make her sick. Rick steps forward and she steps back, her shoulders tense despite the faint tremble she can’t seem to stop.

“What was he doing there?”

“Probably got found by a patrol and brought in. Don’t know what they were planning, but he managed to find me way down in a place no one was supposed to know about. He helped me get out. Let them catch him so they couldn’t get me.”

She sounds confused, like she can’t understand why someone who didn’t even know her would risk their life to get her away from the people who were clearly causing her pain. She doesn’t know Daryl, doesn’t know what the archer is like when someone looks past the layers of bluster and bullshit and sees the kind heart underneath that’s just yearning for a place to belong.

“Who’s them? How many were there?” God bless Shane, because he’s gone into cop mode. Neither of them have done that in far too long, because in the world today, no one needed officers of the law. They needed leaders, yes, but it didn’t matter what shape or form those leaders came in—whether they wore a badge or wrote a book or played for a different side of society altogether Before.

“Didn’t exactly have time to stand and count,” the woman snaps, edging too far into defensive for Rick’s comfort. If they drive her away, she could die. As much as he wants to find Daryl and get the archer and his brother back to the prison, back to _safety_ , he will not have her death on his conscience. Not after Daryl all-but sacrificed himself to give her freedom.

“Why did this Governor have you locked away to begin with?” It’s a valid question, and he watches the way her face shuts down fully, her dark eyes taking on a hard glitter that reminds him of unbreakable diamonds and sharp, gleaming steel.

“’Cause I found out what kind of man he really is.”

“Well, now he’s gonna be a fucking dead man,” Shane growls, and Rick echoes the sound with a wordless rumble of his own, his muscles tense and ready to spring, but the logical part of him chooses now, of all fucking times, to voice its opinion.

_You need a plan. Can’t charge in half-cocked, guns blazing. Don’t endanger him like that. What if there are innocents? No, gotta be smart. Plan for the ones who are responsible, and spare the rest._

Shane must see it in his face, because the man is already nodding and wiping his knife clean on his pants before sliding it back into its scabbard. “We need to get back to the prison, first,” he mutters, looking from Rick to the woman as she watches them with eyes that are starting to droop. She sways forward suddenly, and they’re already there to catch her, keeping her from damaging herself even further as her unconscious body crumples into their waiting arms. They share a look over her back, and his soul brother raises an eyebrow.

“Guess that answers that question,” Rick sighs. His face doesn’t hurt much anymore, but he can feel pain flaring up through various parts of him—as though he’s being punched but the pain is dulled. Looping one limp, unresisting arm over his shoulders, he waits as Shane braces the woman on the other side. “C’mon, let’s get her back to Hershel. Then we’ll come up with a plan.”

As they start to walk, they half-carry, half-drag the woman along between them. She’s lighter than he was expecting, which can’t be a good sign, and up close she smells even worse than he’d imagined. Beneath the layers of body odor and urine, he smells something sickly-sweet, like flesh just beginning to rot, and he glances down at the wound on her leg. It must be infected, but without a better look at it, they won’t know for sure. At this point, he’s not even sure if she’ll survive long enough to tell them what they need to know to save Daryl, but if there’s even the smallest chance that she will, he’s going to take it. Rick refuses to leave his lover at the mercy of this Governor character, or anyone else for that matter. He’s already got plans for the fucker when he meets him, and not one of them involves using his colt or a knife or anything that will make his death quick and painless. No, the man is going to suffer slowly and die in agony, and Rick will relish every moment of destroying the person who dared to harm someone so precious to him.

_Be strong, darlin’. Don’t lose hope. I’m coming for you._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, fuck the Governor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my grumpiness last night, you guys. It was a bad day, and I was so exhausted by that point that I just kind of threw the chapter at you and left. It was shorter than I wanted it to be, and I wasn't really happy with it, but I hope you liked it anyway.
> 
> To make up for me being a grumpypants, I have for you chapter 11! And it's a little longer than usual, as a present for everyone dealing with me! *flails happily*
> 
> So. Um. Warning for gratuitous violence and blood. And feral!Daryl. Yeah. So, be warned.
> 
> PROCEED.

Two days.

At least, Daryl thinks it's been two days. It's hard to tell the passing of time when you're underground and time can only be told in the number of blows that rain across flesh that never stays damaged long enough to drive the point home.

The Governor and his henchmen needed all of ten minutes to figure it out. Or part of it, at least. No matter what they do, they won't bring his fangs out. Daryl will not give them the satisfaction, even though he's so hungry he can't think straight and he's screamed so hard and for so long that his throat is torn. His own blood does nothing to satisfy him, burning on the way up and dripping wetly from his chin, matting in his unkempt beard as he strains against his shackles and snaps his teeth hard enough to shatter bone and crack the enamel.

It took the heaviest tow chains they could find—wrapped around his wrists, ankles and torso and bolted into the ground—to keep him pinned, and even despite that he can feel the weaker links starting to give a little when Martinez slams what sounds like the butt of his gun into Merle's weaker flesh in the next room.

His brother grunts and Daryl howls his fury to the heavens, his ribs cracking and healing beneath the pressure as he lunges forward again—fracturing and repairing, the pain looping into a never-ending cycle that he remembers all too well from plenty of days where pain was his only companion and the chance of not waking up again kept him vigilant through long nights where his vision was too blurry and the lure of ending things was too strong.

Sometimes he thought it might have been the better choice—going out on his own terms rather than waiting for his daddy to take that from him, too. Then he'd remember that it wouldn't be his choice anyway, just surrendering to Will Dixon in a way that was far too final and far more than that asshole ever deserved.

He hears it when Merle spits wetly, the tang of blood all the sweeter to Daryl because of his slow starvation, and his next roar feels powerful enough to shake the very foundations Woodbury rests upon. He's amazed no one has heard and come to see what kind of monster their precious Governor has snared.

No one has tried to muzzle him since their first failed attempt, when Daryl got free long enough to rip Tony apart and splatter him all over the walls like a grisly painting of slick red and bits of torn muscle. It's still there, dry but left as a warning to anyone who tries to poke the beast. They’d had to knock him out again to get him in the chains, and he’d started fighting as soon as he’d regained consciousness.

The only one who's come to see him the last half-dozen times has been the Governor, and Daryl is intimately familiar with the thump of his beating heart and the pulsing of his blood; the unique cadence of his particular life ingrained in the archer's mind now, and watching that light flicker and die will be his greatest triumph. He knows why the man has done it this way—leaving him tied up and alone while they force him to listen to his brother being beaten and tortured. They don’t know the Dixon boys, though—have no clue what kind of hell they’ve already walked through. Torture was their sustenance as children—they were weaned on blood and violence like hyena cubs, not even offered the merest scraps of affection from anyone but each other. Nothing the Governor or his men can do will ever come close to what their daddy could dream up.

"Shit, that the best ya got?" Merle sneers, his voice muffled and his words rough and low; garbled by pain but strong with his particular brand of stubborn willpower. No one can kill Merle but Merle—least of all some half-trained dog who doesn't know life outside of panting at his master's heels. That still doesn't mean that Daryl will allow any of them to live after this. He's going to rip every single one of them apart until he's so drenched in their blood that he will never again be clean. It will drip from his nose like sweat and clump his lashes like tears—mat and tangle his hair like rain and trickle down his back like shower water to pool in the dip of his spine, where it will branch off into trails and run between his legs like lube and cum.

 _Rick_ , his mind screams, his soul lost in a darkness of his own making and reaching desperately for the only anchor he has. There is no response—hasn't been one in so long that he's beginning to fear he's been abandoned by the only person he'd never wanted to leave.

"Tell us where your camp is and we can end this real quick," Martinez growls. Daryl growls too, the sound raspy and nearly-silent as his throat tries to heal through the damage he's inflicted upon it. He drags his dry tongue across his bloody lips, lapping it up like the sweetest nectar and feeling no relief from the ball of agony his stomach has become. He feels like it's being torn apart by wicked claws, the pain nearly indescribable, and he's lost in another ragged, feral scream when he hears the slow, steady clip of wingback shoes against the concrete and the scent of cologne and something darker teases his flaring nostrils.

The chains go slack when Daryl rocks back onto his heels, growling and wanting to pace but unable to as he listens to the Governor approach. He's so focused on the man that he almost misses the hurried, nervous steps of whoever is following him. He smells chemicals and the bitter swell of fear, and his next rumble rattles his shackles as the door opens and two people step into his cage.

"How are you feeling today, Daryl? Are we keeping you comfortable enough?" The Governor smiles at him and doesn't react when he lunges with a bellow, his teeth clacking against nothing while his gums ache and bleed around his canines.

"You look hungry. Anything we can do to help?"

"This is fascinating," the smaller, mousier man mutters as he adjusts his glasses and hugs his notebook harder against his chest. "How long has he been like this?"

"Almost three days. Martinez managed to get that they've got a camp out of his brother, but it's taking a bit longer to pry out the location of it. They’re tough sons of bitches, that's for sure. Daryl here hasn't stopped fighting since we got the chains on him."

"Three days like this? He shouldn't be able to stand."

"Funny thing about that. The longer he goes, the stronger he gets. I don't know if it's stubbornness or instinct at this point. See the bruise on his collar?"

"Yes," the man says, making like he's going to step closer for a better look until Daryl throws himself forward with a rabid snarl and snaps his teeth down on empty air. He's too far away to reach either of them, but he's so fucking hungry he can't even care—focused on the tiny groans of the metal links as they slowly begin to separate.

_Three days. Waited three fuckin’ days. What’s a little more time?_

"Watch it closely, Milton."

The one named Milton does, his wide, curious eyes roving across Daryl's bared flesh like he's a buffet and the man has been given permission to eat his fill. He and the Governor watch him closely, and when Daryl falls back to pant and growl, bloody foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth like he’s Old Yeller, he watches them observe the bruises fading away like they were never there; hisses through the feeling of his ribs popping back into place and spits a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the Governor's pristine shoes.

_Take that, ya prick._

"Fascinating," Milton whispers, forgetting himself and coming closer again like an eager child. Daryl stays still and watches him, silent and focused like the predator he is. He meets the scientist's intrigued eyes—because what else could he be—and doesn't look away. "What's happening to his eyes?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that. You’re right, Milton. After three days of no food or water, he shouldn't be able to move. And yet he's just becoming even more active, becoming even stronger."

They talk about him like he's not there, but Daryl doesn't care. He can only focus on what Milton has said about his eyes. He knows what the man is talking about, and he hides the panic behind his mask of unbridled rage as he lunges again and startles Milton so badly that the nervous man drops his notepad. It lands too close to Daryl for them to safely retrieve it, and the archer laughs at them as he hunkers down and lashes out to snatch it away.

When Martinez walks in, Daryl's just brushed the tip of his middle finger against the corner of the notepad. He snarls at the sight of the Hispanic man, his gums burning like they're on fire and his vision narrowing down until his prey is in his sights.

"He says they're holed up in that prison we checked before," Martinez offers by way of greeting, and Daryl's fingers spasm violently. He crushes paper and flimsy cardboard, the chains rattling loudly as he shifts and clenches his jaw.

_What the fuck have you done, Merle?_

The Governor is watching him, not Martinez or Milton. And Daryl knows he's given too much away, that he's just as bad as Merle for it, but if his brother hadn't fucking told this psychopath where their fucking **family** lives, the man could have taken Daryl's aborted twitch as any other hundred things instead of knowing it for what it is.

“You told me that place was overrun,” he growls, turning to pin Martinez with a look that makes his lieutenant swallow thickly. “Full of biters.”

“Man says they cleared it. Says they lost some people doin’ so, but they took out the biters and moved in.”

Daryl shreds the paper with nails that are more like claws, growling quietly and gnashing his teeth. Milton makes a dismayed noise as he watches his notes being torn into strips that can never be recovered, and the fierce flicker of pleasure at causing such distress makes the archer want to purr. He rocks back and forth instead, digging his fingers into the concrete and taking a deep breath before lunging forward again. The chains pull taut, creaking and whining in protest, and his muscles bulge as a few more scraps of his tattered shirt fall away. It’s filthy and covered in his blood, revealing skin that ripens with bruises before smoothing over and becoming unblemished again. Martinez watches him and mutters something in Spanish, something that sounds faintly like a blessing. Daryl knows what he looks like—wild and bloody and so far from human that it’s impossible to mistake him as something weak and easily fallible.

 _You’re either the cattle, or the butcher,_ that damning voice croons, and he finds himself rumbling in agreement for the first time as he drags his claws across the concrete and inconsequential colors bleed away. He blinks and his vision is thermal, the world reduced to cool blues and greens or burning reddish-orange. People become anonymous shapes only differentiated by the flares of warmth they give off, but his nose tells him easily enough who he’s looking at.

“Oh my god,” Milton whispers.

“He’s not human,” Martinez hisses next, and it’s easy to follow his scrambled retreat as he backs quickly toward the door. Daryl turns his head to keep the man in view, his mouth open wide in a grisly grin as he licks some of the blood and foam from his lips.

“He’s beautiful, is what he is,” the Governor murmurs. Daryl focuses on him, on the form that seems to burn the hottest. He licks his lips and draws a huffing breath across his tongue, tasting blood and destruction and something that reminds him of death in the cold way it fills his mouth and aches down into his lungs. This is the one who will taste the sweetest—the human who will give him the biggest challenge, when the time is right.

No. No, no, no, he can’t do this. He can’t let himself think like this just because he’s hungry— _starving_ —and he’s losing his grasp on his humanity a little. Daryl is stronger than that, stronger than the beast that prowls through his subconscious and whispers dark desires to him, urging him to do things that will definitely cross the line between morality and savagery. As angry as he is, as fucking furious as the sight of the Governor makes him, he will not become that monster. He will not let it rule his life.

He will not become his father.

“Gonna have to figure something else out, man. Those chains are giving. I don’t think you want anyone around when he gets free.”

Blinking away the thermal vision with a concentrated effort, Daryl tilts his head like a curious animal and spits more blood out onto the ground. The taste of it has always been familiar to him, comforting in a way that reminds him that no matter what, he’s still alive. They can do what they want with him, but he’s still alive and breathing, and that means that they haven’t won yet.

“Actually, I think I want everyone around. I think I want his brother there, too.”

“What?” Martinez growls, his confusion and his horror mingling into an abstract bouquet of flavors that Daryl tastes with a rumbling croon, panting like a dog as he rocks back onto his haunches and digs his nails harder into the cold cement beneath him. Tattered scraps of paper and cloth flutter around him, blood overlaying all of it like the fragile shreds of his control made physical. He’s fighting with everything he has now, shoving the beast back and muzzling it properly, because he swore to himself that he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

_What sweetest satisfaction there will be in tasting their blood, though._

**No**.

“The people of Woodbury have been eager to see another fight. Maybe we give them one worth actually talking about. What better way to rile them up and give them a show than bringing in two traitors who joined us just to try and destroy everything we hold sacred? It’s not our fault that Daryl here was already so unstable to begin with, and his brother is no prize-winning champion, either. Just two rough, wild men. We’ll pin ‘em in with walkers and keep men nearby with weapons just in case.”

“You’re going to let him around people like _this_?” Milton shakes his head, and Daryl pulls a little against his chains, growling and licking his lips as he stares hard at the frantic fluttering of the man’s pulse in his throat. His fear is a bitter scent, his sweat even worse, but the lure of blood is strong enough for the archer not to care.

The Governor rests his hands on his hips, clearly contemplating the dilemma they’ve brought before him. When he smiles, the part of Daryl that’s still conscious enough to follow the conversation amidst the feral haze feels a cold trickle of dread drip down his spine like melting snow.

“Tranquilize him with something strong enough to get him there, and let it wear off through the fight. You boys worry too much. Where’s your sense of fun?”

“Firmly rooted in normality,” Martinez mutters, but he’s already turning to leave. Daryl snarls and lunges forward, angry at one of his food sources getting further out of range. The man twitches and glares back at him over his shoulder. “I’ll go see what we’ve got. Should have something we can use from that convoy we took out the other day. I hope you know what you’re doing, sir. This has the potential to go wrong in so many ways.”

Daryl sincerely hopes it does.

 

 

 

Unlike Merle, Daryl never saw the point in dabbling in drugs. He’s never been high unless he stayed around one of his brother’s stoner friends too long, and even then it was fuzzy and easy to shake away. Since his turn—or whatever the fuck he’s supposed to call it—he hasn’t had to worry about anything like that. Even contact-highs became a thing of the past once the lure for blood became a siren song he could not deny.

It takes them six darts of tranquilizers before Daryl stops fighting. He recognizes the little needled vials with the bright burst of fletching at the end from multiple nature documentaries—snarls when they pierce into his thigh and arms and pump the sedatives into his system until he slumps to his knees and bloody drool drips from his lips. They get the chains off quickly, the weight of them falling away making him feel light enough to float. Or maybe that’s the drugs.

His instincts are still strong enough for him to try and bite at the closest man, who has a bow strapped across his back and telling scars littering his dark skin. A rough sack is yanked over his head before he can, his teeth sinking into burlap and his rumble no less dangerous for all that it’s disjointed and slurred.

“Jesus Christ,” he hears someone breathe out, the words wispy from fear and apprehension. “How is he not dead? Two of those would have taken out a fucking rhino.”

“Less talking, more fuckin’ moving him. Sooner we’re done with this, the better.” Martinez sounds aggravated and strained, and he lifts him along with the bowman and drags Daryl out of the room while other men keep close. The point of a knife digs into his nape, and he snarls through the mouthful of the sack he refuses to let go of. He can hear the sound of a few other men wrestling with Merle, getting him out of his own cage and dragging him forward. It sounds like they have the easier job, even though Daryl is so full of tranquilizing drugs that he can barely keep his feet beneath him.

“Don’t you worry, little brother,” Merle calls, and then he grunts in pain as the dull thud of something impacting his face renders him temporarily silent. It’s rousing enough for Daryl to struggle a little harder, but his body hasn’t burned through enough of the drugs yet to make it worth much. He’s subdued again, so he chews on the rough, disgusting burlap while his blood boils and his instincts roar for vengeance.

The Governor has no clue what he’s about to unleash upon his people. He can hear them, so many heartbeats gathered in one place it’s a little overwhelming, while their leader prattles on about loyalty and traitors and having a special something for them tonight. People are cheering and jeering in tandem, hoots and hollers battering against Daryl’s sensitive ears while he’s dragged in front of them and the sack is ripped off his head hard enough that his jaw pops when it’s yanked out of his teeth.

Light blinds him, and he can smell the overpowering crush of sweat and anticipation. Beneath that, he smells clean, fresh air and the tantalizing rush of so much blood that it makes him dizzy. He staggers a little bit, looking around with unseeing eyes until his vision clears and he recognizes Merle standing nearby; watching him with dark, worried eyes and thin, scowling lips as he’s held in place by two men. His brother definitely looks worse for wear, bruises covering his jaw and throat and cuts splitting open his cheeks. There’s one across the bridge of his nose that’s still bleeding, and the sight of the dark red trail it leaves down the side of his nose to where it wells against the swell of his upper lip makes Daryl growl.

Fucking Christ, he’s so hungry.

“What do you think?” the Governor calls, and the symphony of responding roars is so loud it leaves the archer reeling. He pants quietly, his head dropping forward, and he feels Martinez squeeze his bicep in warning as the man leans in a little closer.

“I might not agree with this, but mark my words. You make one wrong move, and I will put a bullet in your brain.”

Then the men are gone, and he’s being shoved farther into the ring of dirt surrounded on three sides by bleachers crammed full of screaming people. He watches the same thing happen to Merle, the two of them immediately going on the defensive and prowling around one another warily—circling like wolves and waiting for the best moment to strike. Merle is looking to subdue him as quickly as he can, because if Daryl gets too close, gets him down, his brother will die. He’s too far gone to stop it from happening, even though what little of his humanity remains is fighting it with everything he’s got. The rest of him is lost to the beast, snarling and snapping his bloody teeth as his canines drop and his vision goes thermal.

“Daryl,” Merle whispers, crooning and soft as his hands curl into fists and come up in preparation, even though he knows it will ultimately do no good. “Listen to me, little brother. You gotta fight it. Keep fighting it, as hard as you can. I’ll get us out of this, baby bro. You know I will. Ol’ Merle’s got himself a plan. Just need you to hold on long enough, okay? Gonna get us to safety, and then I’ll get you the biggest damn deer in all of Georgia. You like that? Gonna let you drain it dry, brother, and then I’ll catch you another one if you need more. Bet you’re so hungry. I bet it hurts. But you gotta be strong, Daryl. Just be strong a little while longer.”

Baring his teeth, Daryl snarls and lunges. Years of physical fights between them have given them enough insight to each other to know how they’ll move and come together, crashing like two opposing waves and breaking against the banks of one another before receding and coming together again. When he lunges, Merle drops one shoulder and lunges too, the rounded curve slamming into his chest and driving the air from his lungs. Daryl stumbles back, wheezing and growling. His hands are crooked like claws, lashing out and trying to score a hit across his brother’s throat that will draw the blood he’s so desperate to drink.

Merle jerks away, hissing in pain but with only thin lines of red across his Adam’s apple and jugular. They go back to circling, hardly even noticing when men bring in walkers on catchpoles. Daryl barely recognizes what they are past the scent of rot and death, too focused on the living, breathing prey that paces in front of him. He feints left and waits for the man to react, listening to the way the thundering heartbeat jumps and the mass of ember red and orange twitches and brings up a fist, and he roars triumphantly as he spins the other way and tackles his prey from the other side, moving too fast for any hope of retaliation. He pins the human to the dirt, saliva dripping from his fangs and his lips peeled back. Hands scrabble at his arms and throat, an open palm slamming into his temple, but Daryl refuses to let the squirming mass beneath him get away. He’s won this, fair and square.

This meal is his.

Widening his jaws, he leans back a little and forces the man’s head up and back, baring his throat, and the screams around him become inconsequential, the walkers they’re dangerously close to fading into nothingness. None of it matters, and that voice guiding him hisses _Yes, yes, you’ve won this, now take what’s yours_.

“C’mon, Daryl, fight it.” The words are low and raspy, choked off but still audible enough. “I know you’re stronger than that. Rick didn’t choose no pussy who runs and hides behind his instincts at the first sign of trouble. Don’t let us down, little brother. Don’t let them win.”

The name pings on something in Daryl’s smothered conscience, and he cocks his head to the side as he rumbles. Leaning down, he sniffs at the exposed throat and drags his tongue against one of the scrapes, purring at the thick, rich scent of blood beneath the hurt surface. The body beneath him twitches, muscles coiling, and he snarls in warning until it goes limp again. He noses the rabbit-fast pulse, trying to puzzle out why the name is so important right now, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. Not when he’s so fucking hungry and fresh blood is so close, nothing but fragile skin and tissue between his fangs and the meal he’s so desperate to consume.

Rearing back, he hisses at walkers and humans alike, warning them to keep their distance unless they desire to face the same fate. The corpses retreat, moving back in time with the living bodies, and he turns his attention back to his prey.

There’s a moment of silence, noise fading to startled uncertainty as the assembled crowd watches something they were never expecting to see as it begins to unfold and play out. They watch Daryl, his eyes sulfur-yellow and his elongated canines gleaming when the floodlights hit them just right. They watch Merle as he lays and waits, looking like he’s already given up.

Roaring in triumph, Daryl moves to bite.

A piercing whistle cracks through the air like a whip. He jerks back, swinging around to try and pinpoint the noise. His nostrils flare, filling his nose with the scent of musk and woods and the acrid tang of gunmetal.

“Daryl. _**No**_.”

A man is coming forward, every inch of him radiating a predatory heat that rolls like smoke from his burning body. The posture is familiar, the quirk of his head ringing like danger and the smooth gait unhurried as he approaches. Daryl snarls, digging his nails into fabric and flesh until a little blood wells up and the body beneath him grunts.

“ _Daryl_. I said **no**. Let him go, darlin’. Let him go and come on over here. I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got what you need.”

Sniffing the air like a hound, he rumbles when he smells fresh blood. Two more bodies approach, dragging something still warm between them that leaves a small trail of cooling yellow in its wake. He’s up in a flash, prowling closer and rumbling again.

“That’s it, darlin’. That’s it. C’mon. Look what I’ve brought you.”

A hand reaches out, and he growls but doesn’t snap at it. He watches it approach warily, tense and still focused on the carcass of the doe that’s being brought to him like an offering. It’s big, and freshly dead—a token of appreciation, or perhaps an act of courting, but it’s being given to him either way by the predator parading as a human. When a gentle hand runs across the top of his head, fingers careful not to snag in his wild, tangled hair, his rumble turns from dangerous to pleased and he butts his head up into the contact. He inhales deeply, dragging the familiar scent of musk and virile male deep into his lungs and recognizing the echo of it that’s been fading from his own skin.

“Good, Daryl. That’s it. Go on and eat. I know you must be so, so hungry. I can feel it, sweetheart. I can feel you in there, too. You did so good, waiting for me to find you. I’m just sorry it took so long.”

Warm lips press against his forehead, and he drags his tongue across the strong throat in front of him, pressing close and huffing in curious puffs of air. He smells a hint of his own scent, wild and earthy, and hisses happily when a possessive hand sweeps down his spine.

“Eat now, darlin’. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”

Daryl falls upon the deer, sinking his fangs deep into the jugular and drinking down the blood with tiny, pleased growls. It’s still hot—newly caught—and his shoulders dip as he shuffles closer and digs his claws into jaw and shoulder; tilts his head at a better angle and closes his eyes as he sates his hunger for the first time in too long.

“We’re taking our men back,” he hears Rick say, his voice ringing out strongly through the deafening silence. “You’re free to try and stop us if you’d like, but I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Go ahead and try,” Shane growls, and Daryl blinks open eyes that can see normally again and looks up at the man standing nearby, his shotgun raised and his muscles tense. They share a look, and the small smile thrown his way makes him tilt his head a little. It’s easier for him to force the beast back the longer he feeds, shoving it into the recesses of his mind where it belongs and muzzling it once more. Unfortunately, it also leaves space for his guilt to flood through him when his eyes slant toward Merle and he watches as his brother gets up and brushes the dirt from his bare arms and the back of his vest. Blood dots his shirt, eight points of it across his chest, and the archer whines quietly when faced with the visual of what he’s done as well as the knowledge of what he’d been about to do.

Beside Shane is the woman Daryl had saved, a katana with a handle wrapped in white looking perfectly natural and at home in her hands. She’s not looking at him, her burning eyes fixed on the Governor. He and his men are standing with their guns raised and ready, the odds clearly in their favor in terms of firepower, but none of them look particularly eager to get closer when Daryl raises his head from his kill and licks at his bloody lips. He’s a complete mess, red spilling down his chin and throat and slicking his bare shoulders. Their eyes are drawn to him, wary and full of fear that taints their scents and turns them bitter and sour. He curls his lips back for effect and snarls, and a few of them back away even further, their weapons trembling in their uncertain hands.

“Your men attacked my people,” the Governor says, his eyes flicking from Rick to the woman behind him, glittering darkly when he sees her. “They helped aid in the escape of the woman who killed my daughter.”

“The walker that used to be your daughter,” Rick corrects him, looking relaxed despite having his colt raised and aimed, the hammer pulled back and the weapon ready to fire. “Yeah, I heard all about that, and all about what you did to Michonne here. Daryl, darlin’, I know you’re not done yet. Keep going.”

Flushing and ducking his head, Daryl eagerly sinks his fangs back into the doe and keeps drinking until there’s nothing left and he feels better than he has since the last time he stood in front of his lover and looked at him. Rocking back, he wipes at his mouth and throat and sucks the excess blood from his fingers, almost purring. He’s still hungry, could probably drain a few more rabbits before he felt completely satisfied, but the doe is more than enough for now. It’s also nothing close to human, which is putting him at ease even though the knife of guilt it still twisting inside of him.

“Here, little brother.”

Startling at Merle having come so close without him noticing, he looks up at his brother and whines when the still-warm leather of Merle’s biker vest is draped across his bare shoulders. He shrugs into it immediately, craving the small measure of comfort and the glimmer of knowledge that he hasn’t fucked up beyond measure. It leaves Merle in his dirty, torn tank top, more bruises coming to light that were hidden by the vest. Daryl sees them and his whine deepens to a growl, but a quick shake of the older Dixon’s head quiets him.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, baby bro. Ol’ Merle can take care of himself, you know that. I think we’ve outstayed our welcome, though. Best be gettin’ on home.”

A hand extends toward him, and the archer takes it; holds on tightly and lets Merle help him to his feet. They don’t hug, they’ve never hugged, but his brother still gives him something resembling an affectionate punch that stings across his shoulder. The pain fades, but the understanding remains, warming him with relief as he turns to look at Rick. They wait for the showdown to end, Daryl’s eyes sharp and dangerous as he meets the Governor’s furious stare.

_You got lucky, you fucking psychopath. I’d have come for you next._

He still wants to kill the man, wants to rip him into shreds and splatter him against the ground the way he’d splattered Tony all over the walls of his cage. Right now, though, getting themselves the fuck out of Woodbury takes precedence, so he slinks up to stand beside Rick and waits until his lover nods and turns to leave.

“Expect retaliation,” the Governor threatens, his voice hissing out through clenched teeth. Rick pauses and turns his head a little, and Daryl watches the way his features harden and his eyes flash.

“The only outcome from that will be your deaths,” his leader rumbles. “The deaths of your people. The ruination of everything you’ve built here. If you can live with that on your conscience, then expect us to be ready if and when you do come.”

The words ring loudly throughout the arena, reaching every single person, and Daryl watches the mingled reactions to Rick’s words sweep through the crowds before he turns and follows the man. He keeps close, his skin buzzing and his thoughts whirring. Fuck, but Rick is too damn beautiful, especially when he’s letting the darkness drive his protective instincts. It is abundantly clear, with no room left for doubt, that Rick Grimes is a man who will do whatever it takes to keep his loved ones safe—even from themselves.

Woodbury is as silent as a cemetery, the streets deserted and the walls clear except for the bodies of the guards who have died so that Rick, Shane, and the woman Daryl saved—Michonne, if he heard his lover correctly—could get in. She’s walking on his other side, the katana back in its scabbard and a small smile playing across her lips. Curious, he nudges her slightly, drawing her attention to him. Her eye are shining in the mingled darkness and the lights of the trashcan fires burning up and down the street.

“Thank you, for what you did,” she says quietly. Daryl frowns and makes a confused noise, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “You didn’t know me, and you still saved me. You let them catch you and do horrible things just to give me a chance at getting away.” Reaching out, she touches a smear of leftover blood that’s drying on his collarbone, wiping it away with her thumb before cleaning the finger off with her own shirt. Her eyes darken a little. “I just wish I was able to return the favor quicker.”

Daryl rolls his eyes and bumps her with his shoulder, trying to ease her worry the best way he knows how. He ignores the part of him that had been afraid Rick had abandoned him, because that has turned out not to be the case. It was a terrifying prospect at the time, but his lover has proved once again, in a way that cannot be ignored, that Daryl means more to him than just a warm body to sink into. His lover has come to snatch him from the jaws of a man who might as well be the devil made real—walked into an arena full of restrained walkers and automatic weapons without any sign of fear and brought him back from the darkness with nothing more than his words and an offering of a kill he desperately needed.

He can still remember how he’d felt when he saw the doe—that primal surge of satisfaction that a potential mate was showing off his proficiency at hunting and providing. The violence the man had exuded, the calm dominance with which he’d handled Daryl, sends shivers down his spine that draw the attention of his lover. Rick drops back and lets Shane take the lead, brushing a kiss against the archer’s temple and breathing in his scent deeply.

“I felt you,” he whispers, and Daryl startles so violently that he almost trips over a stray rock. They’re back in the safety and comfort of the woods, Woodbury growing small and insignificant behind them as they trek toward home. He can hear the heartbeats of a few others drawing closer, and he smiles as he picks them out and puts names to them. There’s Maggie, and Glenn, and he even hears Oscar and Axel. The others must be guarding the prison, waiting for them to return. His joy at seeing them all again is short-lived when he remembers what, exactly, Rick just told him.

 _Felt me?_ He frowns and looks at the man, and Rick smiles. Daryl feels the faintest brush of something against the edges of his awareness, and his eyes go wide when he recognizes the feeling as being Rick reaching for him.

_Fuck._

How the fuck? He can hear Rick’s thoughts, how fast they’re tumbling around in that gorgeous head of wild curls, but that’s only because he drank Rick’s blood. That’s the only reason he can think of that he suddenly hears his lover. It shouldn’t be a two-way street, though. Rick shouldn’t be able to hear him.

But he didn’t say he heard him. He said he _felt_ him. And suddenly Daryl remembers their first time together—the pleasurable pain of his lover sinking his blunt teeth into the archer’s shoulder hard enough to pierce his skin, and licking up the blood that had flowed from the wound before it had healed. Not enough for even a proper glass, but apparently enough to begin something he’d never expected.

“Hey, now, none of that.” Rick cups the side of his neck and draws him into a kiss, melting his reservations beneath the burning curl of arousal and the wicked turn his lover’s thoughts take. He whines quietly, unashamed and uncaring of their audience right now because he’s been desperate for this man for days, and he’s not pulling away now. He’ll be embarrassed later, when he’s not drowning in Rick’s scent and the possessive and desperate way his lover takes his mouth in a hot, frantic kiss. They only break apart when Merle whistles and cat-calls, the both of them giving him their middle finger without looking away from each other.

“Gonna have a problem if that Governor fucker shows up on our doorstep,” Shane comments, his shotgun resting across his shoulders and his gaze thoughtful when Daryl looks over at him. His attention is quickly on Rick again when fingers stroke down the side of his throat, the tips slipping under his borrowed vest to brush purposefully over his chest and tease a nipple until he hisses quietly and moves away.

_Later. When we’re alone._

Rick understands, smiling slowly and seductively, the predator in him making Daryl shiver and want to show his belly. “We’ll be ready,” his lover rumbles, not looking away as they draw closer to the rest of the waiting group. Closer to the only other home Daryl’s ever had outside of dark blue eyes and wavy curls. “If he comes, we’ll be ready. If he wants a war, we’ll give him one. He’ll regret the day he decided to fuck with the wrong people.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Governor makes good on his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I'm an asshole.
> 
> That's really all it is.
> 
> Also sorry I haven't posted in a few days. Real life and work. BUT I HAVE A SPECIAL SOMEONE IN MY LIFE NOW YES I DO. YES I DO.
> 
> Don't.... don't kill me. I'll fix it. Kinda.
> 
> MIND THE TAGS.
> 
> Oh and just a quick note - I totally listened to Simon Curtis' "Flesh" on repeat for the sex part of this. It's fuckin' glorious. The rest of it.... well, his "Super Psycho Love" is really good, too. Mmmmm.
> 
> *runs away*

It doesn’t surprise Rick how easily Michonne is welcomed by the others. There had been wariness at first, when he and Shane had dragged her home out of the woods with no forewarning. She’d known what Daryl looked like, though, and where he was—she validated the feelings clamoring around in Rick that something was wrong with his lover, and she’d been right. Knowing that she could help them save their archer, the others had agreed quickly to help.

In the end, Rick had only brought a few of them along, and he’d only let Shane and Michonne help him with the deer. Glenn had looked confused, and Maggie had asked why it was important to bring a _deer_ , but Shane had just grabbed one front leg and Michonne had silently taken the other, looking at him and waiting like she knew exactly what was going on.

Nothing could have prepared any of them for what they found, though. Rick still can’t quite reconcile the Daryl they’d found with his quiet, peaceful archer. There had been nothing but death in those sulfur-yellow eyes—no trace of humanity left as he’d pinned his own brother to the ground with tight, corded muscles and went after him with long, deadly fangs.

Rick had reacted the only way he’d known how to—he’d diverted the archer’s attention and offered him the kill, coaxing him away from Merle gently but firmly and crooning praises at him when he’d obeyed and drank from the deer instead of his own kin. He knows things aren’t over between them and the Governor, but he hopes that they have at least a little time to try and gather their forces to adequately defend themselves. Hopefully there’s enough time for him to convince his lover that what happened wasn’t his fault. Instinct can be a hard thing to ignore, especially when you have no way to fight against it. Daryl’s captors probably hadn’t even given him a normal meal, much less the blood he so desperately needed. Willpower can only get you so far in that situation. He doesn’t blame his hunter for falling, but he knows just how much Daryl blames himself.

When they make it back, he takes one of his lover’s still-bloody hands and refuses to let him slink away, smiling when the others rush to welcome them back. They all make a bee-line for Daryl, Carl and Sophia out in front, and as much as the man clearly wants to run, he stays still and even manages a smile as he hugs the children with his free arm. A nervous, shy glance flicks Rick’s way, and he smiles as he rubs his thumb over the back of Daryl’s knuckles.

_It’s gonna be okay, darlin’. You’re okay. We’ve got you._

He thinks it as hard as he can, putting the power of his conviction behind the words, and Daryl winces like he’s screamed it at him, but then his features relax a little and he tilts his head down to press his nose into Sophia’s golden hair, hiding his smile in the strands and basking in the sunny, radiant joy that flows from the others as they crowd in around the group.

“Are you okay, son?” Hershel asks, his voice the calmest and his smile the gentlest. Rick can see his worry, though, as the older man’s eyes flick up and down the archer’s body to find any sign of injury. There are none there to be seen, which is going to raise questions, because Merle still looks like he was on the losing end of a boxing match.

Daryl nods, meeting Rick’s eyes more surely this time as he lets Sophia go and is immediately pounced on by Lori. She has to return his one-armed hug with one of her own, because Judith is tucked against her chest, gurgling away in that happy baby way she communicates with. The sight of the infant makes his lover’s features crumble and smooth out simultaneously, his fear blanking away to contentment as he takes their baby girl and hugs her to him—croons quietly and rocks her and doesn’t even care when a little fist smacks against his cheek.

Seeing his lover like this, still covered in blood everywhere but his hastily-cleaned face and wearing the tank top Rick had put on under his own button down just in case, cradling the giggling baby and looking like his whole world is settling the way it’s supposed to, is beautiful. It does things to Rick, and not all of them are entirely appropriate for present company. When sly, knowing blue eyes slant his way, an eyebrow arched, he smirks and raises one shoulder in a shrug.

 _What can I do?_ he thinks, grinning wide to show the whites of his teeth. _Can’t help how fucking sexy you are, darlin’. Can’t stop that I wanna bend you over against the nearest wall and show you just how happy I am that you’re back. Over and over again, until you can’t even move. Think you’d like that?_

It is entirely worth thinking such filth because of how Daryl reacts to it. Now that he knows his lover can hear him when he thinks these things, he doesn’t have to wait until they’re in private. He can just _think_ them, and the way the blush floods across his hunter’s face, visible to him even in the darkness, and the way he sees strong white teeth sink into a soft bottom lip, makes Rick want to lick his own. Daryl sends a flutter of mixed emotions back at him, something needy and wanting mixed with embarrassment over the fact that they’re in front of the rest of their family.

Gentling himself a little, he edges just a little bit closer until the archer can lean back into the strong bracing he offers; settles an arm loosely around Daryl’s waist and presses a tender kiss to the fragile skin behind his ear.

_I really am glad you’re all right, darlin’. Wouldn’t have left any of them alive if you hadn’t been._

He truly wouldn’t have. He’d have torn them all apart, the beast in him roaring for blood to be spilt as penance for what they’d done. Even afterwards, he would never have fully recovered—would have been too unstable, too lost in the violence with the scales tipped in a way that could never be corrected. Daryl keeps him as stable as he can get, and Rick is so truly grateful to his lover for being his grounding anchor. He knows he’s Daryl’s, too, knows they’re probably too focused and centered in one another to the point of codependence, but he also can’t really find it in himself to give a damn. Daryl is his, and he is Daryl’s, and they make it work.

Michonne looks caught off guard when the others start to hug her, her shoulders stiff and her arms by her sides as they welcome her with literal open arms. When Carl hugs her, his arms tight and his face pressed against her shirt, her eyes get a little glassy and she hugs him back, treating him like he’s fragile and liable to break if she’s too harsh. She does the same to Sophia, stroking a hand through the girl’s hair, and he catches Daryl’s quick smile from the corner of his eye.

“I think it’s way past time we all get some rest,” he decides, drawing everyone’s attention to them. He likes how comfortable Daryl has become in such a short amount of time—he doesn’t duck away from their curious stares, or try to get himself free out of any sense of embarrassment or anything negative. He stays in Rick’s arms, leaned back against him with Judith falling asleep in his own arms. That little smile is still playing around his lips, but he knows his archer well enough to see the darkness and the self-deprecation lurking just under the surface. “We have a lot to talk about in the morning. For now, we all need sleep.”

Everyone says their goodnights, and when Axel and Oscar turn away to head back to D Block, Rick decides that won’t do at all. “Hold up,” he calls to them, startling them enough that they turn around with wary eyes. The smile he offers makes Axel relax hopefully, although Oscar is a little bit of a tougher sell. He can’t deny his little smile of delight when Rick startles them both by saying, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to our Block,” Oscar replies slowly, frowning like he can’t understand what game Rick is trying to play. “You asked for our help, and we gave it gladly.” A glance is shot toward Daryl, who’s eyes are open and curious, his head tilted a little bit so that his temple is pressing against Rick’s chin. He can’t keep himself from pressing a soft, quick kiss there, feeling his lover’s acceptance and pride as he follows the train of Rick’s thoughts.

“Yes, you did, and you’ll never know how grateful I am for that. However, if you think we’re just gonna ship you off back to that empty Block, you’d better think again.”

“You’ve earned your place,” Carol tells them, smiling, and Rick nods. The looks that dawn across their faces is like the sun breaking through thick, oppressive fog. Axel’s smile is wide and beaming, and even Oscar’s, though smaller, manages to change his entire face and make him look years younger.

“Yes, you have,” Rick agrees. “So let’s all go to bed. We’ve got a lot to talk about in the morning.”

They all head for C Block, and he has to let Daryl go so that he can walk, but he keeps a palm flat against his hunter’s lower back, guiding him and trying to rein in his rising impatience at having him alone and in his arms. It’s been three days—three long, terrible days, but his lover is in front of him and alive, and Rick is damn sure going to make sure he stays that way.

Everyone settles in their respective cells, and he watches Daryl hand Judith to Shane with obvious reluctance. He loves that little girl so much already, pressing sweet, gentle kisses against her downy-soft hair before finally giving her over to the other man. They share a look and a nod, which Shane proceeds to ruin with a wide grin and a few eyebrow waggles. Daryl snorts at him, rolling his eyes, but the blush is still there faintly on his cheeks when he returns to Rick’s side and looks toward the cell Merle has claimed as his own. His brother is already inside and sitting down, wiping at his face with a damp rag while Carol frets over him. He’s clearly enjoying the pampering, even though half the things Rick can hear being murmured from the gray-haired woman are less than kind. It makes him chuckle, shaking his head fondly, and he glances at Glenn when the Asian man approaches with a rifle in his hands.

“Maggie and I will take first watch,” he murmurs, glancing toward Oscar and Axel where they’re tucked away in a cell toward the front of the Block. “We’ll get you if there are any problems.”

“Thank you.” Gripping the younger man’s shoulder, he squeezes tightly and tries to convey his gratefulness the best way he can. “Seriously, Glenn. _Thank you._ ”

“We’re a family, no matter what.” Glenn isn’t looking at him, though. He’s looking at Daryl. “ _No matter what._ ”

Daryl looks a little shell-shocked, clearly confused as to why the Asian man is saying this to him. Rick’s a little lost himself, because they haven’t yet told anyone, but Glenn has a look on his face like he might know, or at least suspect, and he’s still going out of his way to assure his friends that they’re still family. Family fights for one another. They might not always get along, but at the end of the day, they’re still family, and nothing will change that.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, leading his lover away and hurrying them up the steps until they’re out in the fresh, cool air again and the door is securely locked behind them. Rick wastes no time, unbuttoning enough of his shirt to drag the rest of his head instead of bothering with the tiny buttons when he’s so eager to get Daryl’s skin against his. His archer is already shirtless, his pants unbuttoned, and he’s clearly lost his patience with his clothes, because he’s reaching for Rick at the same time that Rick grabs his hunter and hauls him close enough to kiss him.

It’s not hard or frantic, like he was expecting it to be. Instead, it’s deep and slow, wet and passionate and desperate and fucking _perfect._ He backs Daryl up until they’re close enough to their nest of blankets that he can lower him into it, following him down and sliding their bodies together. His lover’s legs part immediately, welcoming him between them, and their groins settle together as they keep kissing; rolling in a slow, gentle rhythm as Daryl’s palms slide down his back and Rick angles the man’s head with one hand on his jaw. The other settles into that wild brown hair, fingers threading through the strands and pulling a little until a whimper spills past those thin, beautiful lips.

“Thought I was never gonna see you again,” he growls into the minimal space between their mouths, panting and already hard; already able to feel how hot and frantic Daryl is against him when the archer rocks his hips up and makes everything just a little bit dirtier between them. A hand sweeps down his spine to grab his ass, urging Rick to move a little bit harder. He bites at Daryl’s throat, rumbling quietly in warning, and his lover goes limp with a whine as he tilts his head back to offer his throat.

Licking a wet stripe up that perfect stretch of skin, he bites along his lover’s jaw and tastes the sweat and dirt on his flesh, as well as the faint traces of blood that still cling to his beard. Growling possessively, Rick bites at him again, sinking his teeth in and sucking hard enough that the man jerks and gasps desperately, his nails scrabbling against the tender flesh at the middle of Rick’s back. He can feel the stinging lines and bites a little harder, sucks a bit more, and worries the skin clamped between his teeth until he’s sure that there’s going to be a bruise. It’s not going to stay, he knows that, but he does it anyway.

Daryl falls apart beneath him, whining and arching and begging the best way he can, his mouth open and wet as he pants frantically and ruts his cock against one of Rick’s strong thighs until he comes just like that, nails biting into flesh that doesn’t heal as quickly and his lips pulled back from his clenched teeth. Pulling back to look down at him, Rick relies on the stars and the moon to see the way his lover’s eyes are glazed and his cheeks are flushed, his bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead and beads of perspiration adding a nice shine to his skin. Licking at the fading love-bite, Rick practically purrs as he reaches down to palm across the front of the archer’s jeans, feeling the heat and knowing that if he slipped beneath the waistband he would feel how wet Daryl is now that he’s come in his boxers like a horny teenager.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’,” he whispers, nuzzling the man and giving him a slow, deep kiss that feels even more earth-shattering than anything else they’ve done. “You’re so perfect, Daryl. So fucking beautiful, and all mine.”

His lover gasps through the aftermath of his orgasm, slowly relaxing until his nails pull away. Rick glances back curiously and sees the little bloody half-moons dotting his skin, grinning proudly. Strong, careful hands cup either side of his face and lead him back down into another kiss, the two of them nuzzling and licking at each other just as much as they actually kiss. He slides them out of the rest of their clothes while Daryl licks and sucks at his earlobe, which is a sensitive spot and makes him shudder and groan. He feels a little surge of satisfaction from his lover at that, and, grinning, he retaliates by sinking his teeth into Daryl’s shoulder until the archer keens and widens the spread of his legs, arching his hips and begging.

They’re both filthy, covered in sweat and dirt and God only knows what else. Daryl hasn’t been able to bathe in days, and there a lot of things that they should probably be doing to fix that right now, but neither of them can stop. They’re so used to going without proper showers, considering the state of the world, and Rick really can’t be fucked to care if there’s sweat and dried blood flaking from his hunter’s skin when he sucks a line of bruises down the strong, heaving chest until he can bite and lick at a dark, hard nipple. Daryl cries out, his back arching sharply, and Rick growls happily as he gropes for the bottle of lube they’d uncovered from one of the deserted cells.

Hey, prisoners need relief, too.

Slicking up his fingers, he wastes no time in pressing two into Daryl’s tight, eager body. He’s welcomed in, muscles clinging and clenching as they try to suck him deeper. He growls again, closing his eyes and pressing his face into his lover’s sweaty throat as he works them in and out, scissoring and twisting them and listening to the wet sounds. An arm wraps around his neck, dragging him closer, and he loves the desperate little choked-off noises Daryl always makes when he’s being stretched. He’s always so eager, always wanting more, and tonight Rick will give it to him.

A third finger makes Daryl rumble, his head thrown back and his free hand scrabbling across the blankets until it scrapes over bare roofing, searching for something to hold onto as if that could possibly help him right now.

“Want more, sweetheart?” Rick whispers onto one of his ears, biting the shell and licking at the faint hurt while he feels Daryl’s rapid nods. He smiles and tucks his nose behind that ear, snuffling deeply and drawing in quick, huffing breaths to get the scent of his lover and nothing else as he teases the rim of his archer’s needy, clenching hole with his pinky. It takes a little work and some more lube, but then he’s easing four fingers into the tight, accepting body, and Daryl has to stuff the closest blanket he can find into his mouth to gag himself and muffle what would have been a scream otherwise. Rick glances down and watches his cock jerk, lines of white painting his skin. He rubs it in, making the younger man even filthier, but Daryl clearly doesn’t care as he presses closer for more.

“God, so fuckin’ perfect. Gonna kill that motherfucker for ever daring to hurt you. Gonna make him regret ever lookin’ at you wrong, darlin’. Gonna do it with my cum drippin’ out of you, too, just because.”

Pulling his fingers out a little too quickly—and listening to the resulting whine that’s muffled by the blankets, Rick quickly slaps more lube around his cock and falls between Daryl’s legs again, urging one of them up until a calf is braced against his shoulder and bending the archer in an impressive show of flexibility. They look at one another, Daryl’s eyes dark and begging, Rick’s lips curled back and his own gaze possessive and loving. Tension builds, need and love and fading fear echoing between them in a way no one else will ever understand, and then it snaps like a band and Rick thrusts forward at the same time that Daryl lifts his hips to welcome the slam of his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, bottoming out fast and grinding forward immediately, sinking as deep as he can and refusing to move back even a centimeter as he presses tender kisses across Daryl’s cheeks. A little bit of drool has managed to leak out instead of being absorbed by the blanket, and he laps it up with a quiet moan. Daryl whines back, his leg dropping away and his arms wrapping tightly around Rick’s back again so he can pull him down. They’re so close that even a piece of paper can’t fit between them, sweat and blood and cum mingling on their skin as they rock together with no one but the moon to watch the way they writhe.

The blanket is ripped away and their mouths crash like waves on the shore, wet and wild and untamed as they growl and nip and nuzzle at one another, their emotions feeding continuously back and forth like a looping track until instincts blur and become one entity—two feral creatures made whole by the flash of elongated fangs and the glitter of dark, possessive eyes.

 

 

 

Morning comes suddenly, peaceful unconsciousness shattered by the way Daryl jerks away and sits upright. Rick scrambles to gather clarity, sitting as well and reaching for his lover. A dark growl makes him pause, and he tries to soothe the archer with calming noises. It takes him a moment to realize that the man isn’t looking at him. He’s looking out toward the front of the prison, his muscles tight and coiled and his teeth bared.

“Daryl, what is it?”

Rick strains to listen, hearing the natural sounds of nature and life—birds chirping, creatures calling to one another, the sound of the wind through the trees. Closing his eyes, he tries to focus to find the problem, reaching out to touch Daryl’s bare shoulder. It’s like a door opens, the hunter’s emotions spilling into him like flooding waters. He still can’t hear the man’s thoughts, but he picks up enough to realize that they’ve got company.

They scramble to get dressed, but the roar of engines Rick couldn’t hear before is getting loud enough now that he realizes that being presentable is less important than being ready, so they both forget about shirts and shoes and bolt for the stairs.

“Everyone up!” Rick shouts, and he hears the others coming to in varying degrees of confusion and anger as he and Daryl thunder down the catwalk and take the steps two at a time. Shane is the first one out of a cell, bare-chested like them and already readying his rifle. His eyes are dark, his hair wild.

“What is it?” he growls, pumping to engage the weapon and falling in behind them. Oscar and Axel hurry out of their cell, the rest of their family scrambling to join them in varying degrees of wakefulness. Carol is on watch duty, but she doesn’t have Daryl’s senses, so she wouldn’t know anything was wrong until it was too late.

“We’ve got company,” Rick growls, grabbing a rifle from the pile on one of the common room tables because he was too frantic to remember his colt. Daryl’s crossbow is on another table, and his lover grabs it up and quickly loads it, his movements fast and efficient before he brings it into position on his shoulder. Rick hears the sound of others grabbing guns if they don’t already have them—the rasp of Michonne drawing her katana as she appears at the doorway to the Block, her dark eyes bright and angry.

“Think it’s them?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous as she slinks after them like the predator she is, liquid and deadly like a jungle cat.

“Can’t be anyone else,” he grunts, glancing at Daryl to check how the younger man is doing. He’s as tense as his bowstring, his eyes gleaming with challenge and dark, roiling fury. The beasts inside of them are pacing and snarling, chomping at the bit to be let free. Raising his voice, he snaps out orders to the others.

“Everyone be on guard. If this is who I think it is, he’s a sick son of a bitch. He tortured two of our own, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who likes losing.”

“He seems like the town drunk who broke my fence and trashed my yard,” Shane grumbles, voice tight and face tense as Rick shoves the door open and they spill out into the yard just in time to watch an armored army vehicle slam through their gates.

“Certainly knows how ta make an entrance,” Merle snorts, kicking the door shut behind them. The only ones not out with them are Lori, Hershel, and Beth. Carl and Sophia are inside too, though he knows his son isn’t happy about it. Someone has to watch Judith, and Hershel probably stayed behind to make sure they were protected if it needed to come to that. He’s a gentle soul, but he’s not above hurting anyone who tries to hurt his family, and Rick knows that.

“Stay together!” he shouts, watching two more vehicles following the first one. Daryl snarls and fires, his bolt hitting its mark squarely in the middle of a man’s forehead. He’d been standing in the back of a tricked-out truck parading as a jeep, and he’s thrown back from the force, hitting the ground with a thump that only the archer can hear. He’s already dropping his crossbow to reload when the Governor’s men open fire.

Rick probably bruises his shoulder with how hard the butt of his gun slams into it, but he’s ignoring the pain as he fires back, each recoil grinding bone and bruising flesh that will heal, so is easily ignored for the time being as adrenaline makes everything else but survival inconsequential.

Glenn is shouting, a semiautomatic braced and the muzzle slid between openings in the chain-link fence as he squeezes the trigger for rapid-fire. Maggie is beside him, quiet and deadly as she picks men off with her sniper rifle. From the guard tower, he can see Carol with her own rifle raised, the muzzle flashing every time she pulls the trigger.

“Take cover!” Shane shouts when it becomes apparent that they’re too exposed. Rick and Daryl duck toward a more protected area, Merle hot on their heels and howling insults as he fires. They duck behind one of their vehicles, coming up to fire before dropping back down again. When he looks at Daryl, he sees his lover’s tenseness and feels what he wants, the darkness in him overshadowing everything else as his fangs drop and his eyes swirl with dark intent.

“Do what you need to, darlin’. Just be safe,” he growls, and they share a bruising kiss that cuts his lips. Daryl laps up the blood with a rumbling purr, and then he’s hurling himself up over the body of the sedan and Rick is rising like a vengeful god to lay down a cover of fire for him. It turns out to be useless, because his archer is nothing more than a blur he can barely follow with his eye. Out in the tall, swaying grass of the field, men start to fall like dominoes, their throats torn wide open and their surprise following them into death as they crumple.

“Fuckers!” Merle barks, and Rick shares a glance with the man. He looks like hell, his skin mottled with bruises and one eye swollen almost completely shut. There’s cold determination in every line of his body, though, his split lips peeling back to show his teeth, and Rick has a quick moment to be glad they’re on the same side before they both nod and come around either side of the car, rising simultaneously with their weapons ready and their blood howling for revenge against these men who would dare bring danger to their doorstep and their loved ones.

Shane falls in on Rick’s other side, silent but ready as he watches the destruction unfold. The Governor’s men are turning in circles, weapons cutting through the air as they try to find a target. Glenn and Maggie falter, their guns silent, and Rick is already opening his mouth to shout when a bullet whizzes past his ear and he hears Merle grunt.

Time slows to a crawl, the air heavy like molasses as he turns to look at the man. There’s a bright red bloom spreading over his dirty shirt, unfurling like petals from the center of his chest. He watches Merle look down at the wound, and then back up at him, his eyebrows going up slowly like even that’s taking more effort than he currently has available.

“Well, shit,” he slurs, his weapon dropping from limp fingers, and Shane is already reaching to grab him when his knees buckle and he falls into Rick. He braces himself to take the weight, hands grabbing hard biceps as he helps Merle down so he doesn’t drop too fast.

“No, no, no, c’mon Merle, stay with us,” he hisses, putting pressure on the wound and ignoring the way the dark red blood wells up through his fingers and runs across the backs of his hands. Shit, shit, no, this can’t happen. Merle can’t die, not like this. Daryl needs him, needs his brother, but Merle is laughing weakly at him as blood bubbles up against his ruined lips and leaks down toward his ear.

“What’s that look for, Officer Friendly?” the man rasps. “Would almost think you cared.”

“’Course we do, you son of a bitch,” Shane snaps, trying to cover them and help at the same time even though they both know there isn’t a damn fucking thing they can do right now to save Merle Dixon.

“’S nice ta hear, there, Curly. Ol’ Merle gets ta die with friends here. Never thought I’d see it happen.” His eyes are dimming, shifting from their faces to stare unseeingly up at the beautiful, cloudless sky. Seeing it makes him smile. “You take care’a my brother, Rick. You do what I couldn’t. I’ll haunt… haunt yer ass if ya don’t.”

“You’re not dying, Merle,” Rick snarls, even though he knows the truth—he just refuses to accept it. Merle knows it, too, and his next laugh is nothing but air, more blood staining his teeth as his eyes crinkle up at the corners like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

And then he’s gone, mouth open and eyes empty as his last breath rattles out of his chest; gets caught by the wind and carried away to some place better, out into the woods to play amongst the leaves freely, and Rick has a moment to wonder if Merle’s soul has ever been so light before the rat-tat-tat of gunfire bleeds into his ears again and rage swiftly follows.

Roaring, he surges to his feet, his bellow echoed by Shane, and the two of them charge forward. He pulls the trigger even long after all it does is click, his weapon empty, and Shane’s already thrown his shotgun aside in favor of his knife. He’s about to follow when one of the Governor’s people, a Hispanic man with blood flecked across his face and his teeth bared, swings their way and opens fire.

Shane goes down, screaming in pain, and Rick screams too as he watches his soul brother’s blood spill across the browning grass, his knee ruined and his stomach shredded. They look at each other as Rick falls to his knees, sobbing and shouting and _begging_ even as a bloody hand cups the back of his neck and drags him down until their foreheads are pressed together.

“Never give up,” Shane hisses. “You don’t _ever_ give up, brother, you hear me? You keep fuckin’ goin’ for them, Rick. You keep goin’ for _him_. He needs you.”

“ _Shane_ ,” he sobs, his throat tight and his cheeks wet. “We need you, too.”

Blood is wet on his friend’s lips, splattering his cheeks in tiny, warm droplets when his oldest friend chuckles and his fingers slip away. “Need you more, Rick. Remember that.”

He holds onto Shane, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as everything builds and builds, and then it shatters like a broken window and the shards cut away his last restraints, the beast lunging with a roar. His howl echoes across the field, full of pain and rage and the promise for vengeance that stills the Governor’s people and fills them with uncertainty. They watch Rick as he rises from his knees, his bare chest covered in the blood of two good men and his eyes pitch black when he raises his head to look at them.

They have no idea what they’ve done, and out near the armored vehicle he can see Daryl crouched over the body of a man, blood vibrant on his skin as he looks at Rick. The emotions battering at him are a swirling mess of things, and he knows that his lover doesn’t know about Merle, so he takes a deep breath.

 _I’m sorry, darlin’,_ he thinks, pushing as hard as he can, and Daryl jerks like he’s been shot before blurring into nothing again as he runs. Rick watches the Hispanic man go down, shouting in fear, and turns away.

The Governor is standing there, a rifle raised and his head tilted as if in curiosity. “This could have all been avoided,” he says, sounding regretful but looking too smug as his eyes flick down to Shane’s body. “None of this had to happen.”

“You tortured my lover and his brother,” Rick hisses, drawing his knife and prowling forward. They circle one another, two predators looking for the right opening. “You pitted them against one another and tried to make them fight to the death. You didn’t think we wouldn’t come for them?”

“That woman killed my daughter.”

“Your daughter was already dead!” he snarls, throwing up his empty hand to halt Daryl when he feels the archer’s presence drawing too close. “This one is mine,” he says simply, and his lover backs away with a growl, blood dripping from him like rain—everywhere but his mouth. He’s losing the battle against his own darkness, but he hasn’t fallen low enough to drink from any of them. That’s enough hope for Rick to know that his words will be heard and his order obeyed.

“You don’t understand what I do, Rick,” the Governor says, still so calm and placating, like he has any hope of talking himself out of this. Like he’s not going to die badly today. “I have kept my people safe. I’ve given them shelter. I’ve kept everything bad from them. You’ve ruined that. You and that monster you call your lover.” A disparaging glance is shot Daryl’s way, and Rick sees his chance and lunges.

The Governor takes a fist to the face, spitting blood and anger like venom before retaliating with a solid punch of his own to Rick’s abdomen. He doubles over and gasps for air, wheezing as it’s driven from his lungs, but he’s not nearly done yet. When the man’s head comes too close, he grins viciously and headbutts him, listening to the satisfying crunch of cartilage and feeling hot blood dripping onto his skin. Daryl is snarling, his anger palpable and easily felt, his rage reaching dangerous levels as Rick and the Governor go down in a mass of writhing limbs and glancing blows.

“You will not take any more from us,” he rumbles, able to see the limp curl of Shane’s fingers from the corner of his eye—the drying red of Merle’s blood smeared across his knuckles. He can hear Glenn and Maggie shouting and shooting, and Axel’s cry of pain followed by Oscar’s deeper bellow. This man, this filthy stain upon the earth, has already taken so much.

“Walkers!”

Head snapping up, Rick sees the staggering forms coming in through the ruined gates, hissing and growling as they fall upon the men and women who are too distracted to notice them, and the ones too wounded to get away. He sees Daryl move in for the kill, ripping them apart and crushing skulls with his bare hands. His face is twisted into something unholy, his eyes bright yellow and his hands hooked like claws. His screams are bestial, too little human left in him. He’s gorgeous and terrifying, and the beast in Rick rumbles in pleasure at the sight of its mate, so wild and unfiltered.

The Governor uses that moment of distraction to roll them over, and Rick feels the cold metal of a gun muzzle tucking up under his jaw. He jerks aside and roars when a line of fire cuts across the side of his throat, blinded by his rage as he slams a fist into the face below him again and listens to the satisfying sound of the man choking on his own blood and pain.

A thin, reedy gasp turns into a laugh, the muscles pinned beneath his hands shaking, and Rick tilts his head and rumbles, his eyes narrowed and dangerous. He curls his lips back to show his teeth, which are stained red from his own blood. More of it drips down from the wound on his neck, splattering against the Governor’s dark vest and pale cheeks, the dark eyes blazing triumphantly.

“Maybe not from you, no, but I can take a lot more from _them_ ,” he hisses through broken teeth and bloody lips, and Rick feels cold steel press too harshly against his chest, just below his breastbone, and there’s no way for him to get out of the way this time.

The gun goes off, loud and final, and he hears his own blood roaring in his ears as he’s shoved aside and falls limply on his back, trying to gasp through the agony as his fingers twitch. He stares up at the sky, watching clouds roll in from the edge of his fading vision, and then suddenly he’s looking at matted, blood-drenched brown hair and yellow eyes.

“Daryl,” he rasps, trying to reach up. Everything hurts, and he coughs out a mouthful of blood that splatters against the archer’s lips and nose and blends in with the rest of the carnage already painted across the man’s skin in grisly detail. “It’s okay,” he tries next, the words breathy and almost inaudible. The beast above him whines, it’s head tilting to the side, and he watches the features he loves so much morph, watches the sulfur-yellow spread to encompass every part of those eyes as the fangs drop a little lower and the teeth around them sharpen as well. Everything that Daryl is falls away, his body changing to reflect the beast inside. He’s lean and liquid, death made physical and inescapable, and Rick thinks he’s absolutely beautiful.

“I love you,” he whispers, or maybe he just thinks it, because he’s so cold and already tumbling down into a darkness that he cannot come back from, the fading echoes of a monstrous roar wrapping around his body and cushioning his descent until there’s nothing anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Happy Easter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've killed a bunch of you with that horrible death!fic, HAVE SOME MORE ANGST. This one has porn though, so hey. That's a plus, right?
> 
> AND GO.

Daryl hears the gunshot louder than anything else; watches as Rick’s whole body jerks violently, blood spraying like fine red mist from beneath his shoulder blades as the bullet leaves his back and he slumps like a puppet without strings. He watches, frozen, as his lover’s body rolls limply to the side, hardly a noise escaping when he hits the ground on his back and stares blankly up at the sky.

He can hear the muted sound of gunfire—can hear Maggie and Glenn as they’re forced back by another wave of the Governor’s soldiers. He hears when Carol runs out of ammo and starts making her way down out of the tower; when Hershel comes out and starts firing even though it will do no good.

Hears the sound of Rick’s heartbeat stutter and slow. Stutter and slow.

Slow.

Slow.

Daryl makes it there in time to watch the light fading from his lover’s eyes, silent as death as his blood roars in his ears and the Governor gets to his feet nearby, saying something he can’t hear. He can barely hear what Rick is saying, reaches out with his mind and a wounded, terrified whine to grip the man’s thoughts.

_I love you._

Faint, fainter, gone, and Rick goes limp as his head lolls a little bit to the side.

Stutter and slow. Slower.

Somewhere in the dark, hidden recesses of Daryl’s mind, a lock clicks and a door creaks, a sliver of something shining through the crack before it’s blown open unceremoniously by the press of memories that tumble through—

_So hot god damn why is it so hot today, fuck Merle for stayin’ home like a pussy and leavin’ me ta track our damn dinner and haul it home myself—_

The feeling of the Governor’s throat as it’s crushed beneath his hand, palm hot and unforgiving against the bobbing Adam’s apple as he watches the struggle in shades of red and orange, blood welling up against his claws when they press in deeper—

_Pain too much pain, cruel eyes and graying hair, a smirk and a trimmed beard; hands too hard that force him to the ground—fuck my head hurts what the hell did that fucker hit me with—_

Hot, tangy blood spilling over his tongue, his jaws open wide to accommodate his new teeth as he sinks them into weak flesh and drinks deeply; he’ll need more strength for this—

_The sightless eyes of the buck, blood around its muzzle and broken antlers jabbed into the ground; gaze dark and empty and dead when his head is forced to the side to stare at it, a voice mockingly warm and fond as claws gently scratch against his throat before screaming agony and fire bleed down his jugular, replaced by something like comfort and pleasure—_

Daryl drops the Governor’s corpse and turns back to Rick; drops to his knees and sinks his fangs into the man’s throat without a thought, drinking the cooling lifeblood and groping at his hip for his knife. He needs to be fast, needs to do this before it’s too late—

_Everything getting muzzy, fading into nothingness; his breath slowing, his heart stopping, and then the coppery scent of blood as a wrist is pressed against his mouth and hot droplets slide across his tongue. His strength returning to him in slow pulses as his weak, cold fingers grab for a hold and his mouth opens wider, new life flowing down his throat and spreading to every inch of him, burning trails of fire along the way as everything he was is scorched away to leave room for everything he will be—_

Growling and whining, he drinks and drinks until Rick’s got barely anything left and his heart hardly beats at all. Pulling away gently, he brings his own wrist to his mouth, knife forgotten, and takes far less care in how he rips his own skin open. It’s messy and wet and painful, but he doesn’t _care_ , and he shoves it against Rick’s mouth, grips his jaw gently and coaxes it wider as his blood pours and pools, running down the sides of the pale face. Letting go of his lover’s jaw, he rubs at the strong throat, working to make it swallow his offering while his mind fragments and screams, stuck between Now and _Then—_

_The sound of something startling and loud, footsteps and raised voices, and the blood is gone but Daryl wants more, **needs** more. A sharp command and a pointed look, bloody fangs bared in a growl that he returns until something comes down hard on his skull and the darkness swallows him whole—_

It’s faint at first, but there’s a hitch in Rick’s heartbeat—a subtle flutter that makes Daryl double and redouble his efforts, giving more and more until a hand grabs his wrist weakly and blunt teeth dig into the bump of his wrist bone. A wet, clumsy tongue drags across the wound, prodding at the healing flesh until Rick rumbles, deep and dangerous, and rips it open again to get more. He becomes voracious, just like Daryl did, making muffled sounds around his meal as his grip tightens and becomes like iron, hard and demanding and holding the archer in place until he knows that the fledgling has had enough.

Rick snarls when he tries to pull away, the sound sending shivers down his spine, but Daryl snarls right back regardless and yanks himself free, standing and backing away as the gaping hole in Rick’s chest heals, bits of shattered bone pushed out of the wound as new bone grows in its place. His lover opens eyes that are somewhere between bronze and amber, his muscles liquid and fluid as he rolls to his feet and prowls after the retreating hunter.

“ _Mine,_ ” he snarls, his nostrils flaring as he drinks in Daryl’s scent and imprints it in his memory, the same as Daryl did when he first saw Merle.

Rumbling, he keeps just out of reach, knowing that they need time and recognizing that there is none, because what soldiers aren’t dead out here in the field are making their way inside their home, screams and gunfire barely muffled to them by the thick walls of the prison.

_C’mon, Rick, we got work to do._

Rick bares his teeth, his fangs elongating for the first time ever. They’re thick and slightly curved, a true mark of his power and strength in the way that they stop just below his bottom lip. Daryl’s aren’t even that big, but he finds it fitting that the darkness that his lover has carried in him for so long is manifested in such an irrefutable way.

“ _Hungry_ ,” Rick growls, tilting his head back and sniffing at the air again. Daryl knows what he wants, what his brand new instincts are demanding of him—find and feed, kill and drink, take and destroy. Like this, he knows that Rick can’t differentiate between animal or human, but maybe, right now, they can use that to their advantage.

_Then let’s get somethin’ ta eat._

Daryl leads the way, refusing to let himself pause when he sees Merle’s body stretched out across the gravel road. He’ll mourn his brother later, when there’s time. Right now, they have to make sure that the family they have left stays breathing, and then he can lure Rick out into the woods to sate his needs. He can feel the man, his breath hot on the archer’s nape, his growls soft and dangerous as he follows, and it makes him shiver in possessive delight and submissive desire, because even like this, with Rick newly turned and Daryl guiding him, the balance is still firmly tipped in his lover’s favor. Rick is the dominant one here, but he knows on an instinctual level that Daryl will give him what he needs, and so for now he is content to follow.

No one is expecting them—the others probably think they’re dead, if they saw Rick go down and Daryl’s swift descent afterwards. The Governor is dead, and it wasn’t nearly as slow or as painful as he deserved, but there wasn’t time to mete out what was justified when Daryl had more important priorities. A minute later, an inch over, and Rick would have been beyond saving.

Screams deafen him, confined in the corridor and bouncing back in a cacophony of piercing terror. Flesh splits easily beneath his hands, muscles tearing and bones shattering as he rips apart the threat to his family. He can hear much of the same from Rick, although his particular slaughter is accompanied by the wet sucks of someone drinking, and Daryl shudders even as lust coils hotly in his belly, because it’s not safe to drink human blood, but he can’t find it in himself right now, when he’s still so furious and vengeance is still due, to stop his lover from taking what he needs from the ones who deserve it.

They track the intruders all the way to the common room outside of C Block, where Daryl pins a woman to the ground and rips her throat open with his claws, ignoring her dying gurgles and snarling at Rick when he comes closer with the intent of drinking.

_No more, alpha. You’re done._

Rick bares his teeth, his eyes still blazing, and snarls so viciously that it echoes down the corridor. Daryl can see Hershel standing in front of the entrance to the Block, a gun in his trembling hands and fear etched deeply into his features. Standing slowly, the archer wipes at some of the blood on his face and just smears more along his jaw, panting quietly and putting himself between Rick and the rest of their family. He can hear Beth sobbing, can easily hear Judith wailing in fear—can smell the rich spill of Lori’s blood and already knows she’s gone, too.

“Lord have mercy,” Hershel whispers, raising his gun despite his tremoring and putting them in his sights. “Son, you wanna tell me what the hell that just was?”

“Daryl!”

Glenn’s voice is startlingly loud in the sudden silence, and he barely waits for Hershel to get out of the way before he’s pushing the door open and rushing forward. He hesitates when Rick rumbles, but Daryl ignores his lover’s possessive grumblings and comes forward to meet the Asian man.

“God, dude, are you okay? We saw him go down, and then you were just _gone_. They got Lori, man, they-” His voice breaks, his sorrow rising, and Daryl’s already leaning forward to bump shoulders with him when Carl and Sophia creep into view. Hershel refuses to let them by, putting himself bodily between the children and Daryl and Rick, his gun still raised as though he might have occasion to use it.

 _Don’t seem so surprised, Chinaman,_ he thinks with a snort, arching a disbelieving eyebrow at the other man. Glenn knows him well enough by now to interpret his expression and snorts back, waving a hand.

“Please, I figured it out weeks ago. I spent my whole life playing video games and watching horror movies. You think I can’t recognize when someone’s pretending to be human by now?”

Daryl blinks, because his friend’s scent had never changed once in all that time when they were around each other. Glenn had never even _hinted_.

“Way cooler than Twilight though, dude, nice job. I’m glad you don’t sparkle in sunlight. That would be just weird.”

“Because none of this is weird at all,” Maggie deadpans as she gently moves her father aside and comes out to join them, Carl and Sophia right behind her. As soon as Rick sees his son, something in him eases and he reaches out, bloody and uncaring. Carl doesn’t seem to care either, because he rushes to his dad and throws himself into the strong, familiar arms. Rick curls around the boy, showing care Daryl wasn’t sure he could manage right now not to crush fragile bones, and rumbles contentedly as he rubs his scent into his son’s hair and skin, marking him because his instincts are demanding that he does.

“Yeah, this is totally weirder than dead people getting back up,” Glenn huffs, shrugging a shoulder dismissively. “C’mon, ease up. Don’t you think if he was going to kill us in our sleep, he’d have done it by now? I mean, we gave him plenty of chances. At least _he_ doesn’t try to eat us.”

“You sure about that, son?” Hershel mutters, glancing more at Rick, who has just licked the top of Carl’s head. Which is a little weird, even to Daryl, but he rolls with it and makes a quiet, grateful noise toward Glenn while lifting Sophia into his arms. He’d wonder if Carol made it out okay, but he can smell her trying to calm Beth down and quiet Judith, which means she must have made it inside while he was still trying to bring Rick back. If she feels confident enough to leave him around her daughter still, even knowing the truth, then that should say more to him than anything else.

“Has he tried to nibble on you, Hershel?” Glenn challenges, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin defiantly. “Ever woken up in the middle of the night and seen him crouched over any of us? We’re all still here, we’re still breathing. He didn’t ask to be different, and we had no problem with him when we thought he wasn’t. Why does that change now that we’ve learned the truth?”

Stunned, Daryl stares at the back of Glenn’s head, smelling his determination and his protectiveness as the Asian man goes to bat for him. They have every right to be furious at him for keeping this secret, but Hershel is more wary because he’s afraid for the children, and neither Glenn nor Maggie smell anything like fear. Michonne saw him in the arena, saw him ready to kill Merle before Rick brought him the deer, and her attitude toward him hasn’t changed even a little bit. He can hear her approaching, coming from further in the prison where she’d probably chased down the last of the Governor’s men.

She arrives in time to watch Rick let go of Carl, who is making a face as he wipes the saliva off his hair and forehead but smells so much like happiness that his father is alive, even if his mother is not, that he’s not fooling Daryl. When his lover’s eyes turn toward him, still more bronze than blue, he quickly sets Sophia down and tilts his head a little bit to offer the line of his throat. Rick growls, his nostrils flaring, and Glenn herds everyone away as Daryl slips out of the Block and heads back for the yard, keeping just a little bit ahead of Rick in the confined space until they’re outside and he can run as fast as he wants, leading the fledgling—and where has _that_ word even come from?—out into the forest to feed to his heart’s content. Once he’s brought Rick back from this brink, then they can talk.

Daryl stops long enough to move Merle’s body, picking his brother up and carrying him into the safety of the courtyard before doing the same for Shane. Rick whines when he sees his best friend laid out in the shade offered by the building, crouching down and touching the man’s smooth, peaceful face. Daryl watches as he closes Shane’s eyes, and then Merle’s, whining quietly over the hunter’s brother, and Daryl whines too. He wishes it didn’t have to be this way, wishes it could have happened a lot differently—then they would have had time to prepare, and no one would have had to die. The last thing they need is for these two in particular to come back as walkers, so Daryl kneels and draws his knife. Rick growls, but doesn’t stop him, and he grits his teeth as he quickly stabs them both through the temple before turning and fleeing, his eyes burning and his cheeks feeling wet. He hears Rick behind him, the man remembering somehow to close the only gate left between their family and the walkers before chasing Daryl out into the familiar comfort of the woods.

 _C’mon, big guy,_ he thinks, listening to Rick’s answering rumble as they weave and duck around the trees. _Let’s get you some food._

 

 

 

Rick is voracious like this, silent and lethal as he takes down anything that crosses his path and drinks deeply from it, new blood slicking his skin until it’s dripping from him and his jeans are a lost cause. Daryl tracks him easily, following his path of destruction and wondering if there’s a way for them to salvage any of the bigger kills and take the meat back. Anything smaller than a raccoon gets completely torn apart, but there’s a few deer and at least two coyotes that are intact enough to be promising. He’s not sure if he should be letting Rick feed this much. He remembers how it was for him, the first time—how much he drank and then how sick he got afterwards, his body not yet accustomed to its new diet even if the rest of him was desperate for it.

It takes hours for his lover to slow down, the bronze fading from his eyes until only the dark, beautiful blue remains. He’s still sleek and graceful, even covered in so much blood; prowling towards Daryl like the predator he is, rumbling quietly as his canines shrink back to their semi-normal state. They’ll always be sharper, now, and just a tiny bit longer than they were, but no one who doesn’t know what to look for will ever be able to tell.

Daryl can, though, and he shivers in anticipation as he tilts his head back and watches his lover approach through hooded eyes. Rick pauses, sniffing curiously, and his next rumble is possessive and compelling, his movements sensual and captivating as he slinks closer until he can scrape his teeth against the archer’s bared throat, growling and mouthing at the skin.

“Knees,” he rumbles, and the word is a low croon, powerful and ringing with command that has Daryl’s knees buckling. He drops instantly, the rest of the world fading into inconsequence, and he’s already reading Rick’s intent, already opening his mouth for his lover’s fingers to slide over his tongue and thrust lazily, three of them pumping past his lips and reaching the back of his throat. Claws scratch there, the muscles spasming in response, but thankfully he doesn’t gag. He just tightens his lips and bobs his head, sucking blood and dirt from Rick’s flesh and already moaning softly.

The sound of a zipper makes him look up, and he shivers when he sees Rick reaching in with his free hand to pull out his cock. It’s already hard, thick and long and curving up toward the sky; already wet at the tip, and somehow there’s a few drops of blood splattered across the hot, pulsing flesh. Daryl’s ass clenches, his fingers curling, and he whines around his mouthful as he watches Rick begin to stroke himself, to spread his pre-cum down the thick girth and fuck his own fist while he watches his fingers fuck Daryl’s throat.

 _Gonna paint you up real pretty,_ Rick thinks, his lips curling back to show his teeth. Daryl’s eyes widen and he sucks harder, feeling something like relaxation settle heavily in his limbs as he slumps forward and bobs his head up and down Rick’s fingers—pulls back to suckle at the tips and nip them, shivering at the possessive growl, and then slides them all the way back in until he’s almost choking. Tears wet his lashes, and he’s not entirely sure _what_ kinds of sounds he’s making right now, but they’re quiet and filthy and his hips are rocking up against nothing. Rick is standing over him, casting him in the man’s shadow where he belongs. He belongs in Rick’s darkness, following him faithfully to the ends of the earth and beyond, and he will gladly kneel in supplication every day for the rest of his life, if only his lover will continue to enjoy having him do so.

 _Always,_ the man rumbles, stroking himself faster while Daryl leans in more and fills his nose with the musky, virile scent of his lover, his eyes fixated on the beads of pre-cum leaking free. He sucks harder, wanting it inside of him, and scrambles to open his jeans and give himself some measure of relief from the heat building low in his abdomen. A snarl stops him, his hand hovering uncertainly over his twitching cock, and he whines.

“Ask nice.”

_Please, Rick, I need ta touch myself. Need ta fuck my fist. Need **you** ta fuck me. Can I, please? Can I?_

“Good boy. You just wait, though. Got somethin’ else I need to do, first.”

Daryl knows what it is, _knows_ Rick, and he moans. As soon as his lover’s fingers are gone, the silent command shivering across his jumping muscles, he scrambles to pull his shirt off and tilts his head back, staring at Rick as much as he can from the angle he’s bent his back to.

 _Want it,_ he whimpers, and Rick’s snarl is loud enough to startle the birds out of the nearby trees, his fist flying up and down his cock. Daryl closes his eyes and sighs happily when the first hot strands of cum hit his throat, leaving trails across his Adam’s apple that drip down his collarbones. A milky bead wells against the tip of his hardened nipple, and he feels it trail down his ribs. Rick always comes a lot, always leaves Daryl gaping and leaking copious amounts, and he moans when the head of his lover’s cock drags across his parted, tender lips, painting a streak there. A hand fists in his hair and yanks his head down, more droplets splattering in the brunet strands and rolling down his nape and shoulder blades.

When it’s over, there isn’t an inch of him that isn’t covered somehow, and he knows Rick comes a lot, but he doesn’t quite remember him ever coming _this_ much before. He _reeks_ of the older man’s cum and claim, strands breaking free from his lashes when he blinks and dropping to his cheeks. He licks some of it up, moaning and trying so hard to behave himself and not pull his cock out. Daryl can feel some of it dripping trails down the crack of his ass beneath the waistband of his pants, wet and still warm and promising so much more, and he might not be allowed to touch his cock, but Rick doesn’t stop him when he starts rubbing it all into his skin, smearing cum and dirt across his chest and belly and reaching back after kicking out of his jeans to slide it inside of himself with a finger. He jerks, moaning, and god is it ever nice to not have the hurt accompany the stretch. Rick’s had him bent over and filled up too often for that recently, and he loves that he can just slide right on in without having to bother with waiting for himself to adjust.

Rick clearly approves, his eyes flashing back to that bronze/amber shade as he steps closer. Daryl opens his mouth immediately, sucking the still-hard cock in past his teeth and drooling already as he bobs his head up and down. Rick is long, and thick, and he tastes so fucking good that the archer can’t stop the noises his makes as his throat is fucked and he stretches his own ass, sliding in a second cum-slick finger and curling them just right.

“ _Mine,_ ” Rick snarls, pulling back suddenly. He barely opens his mouth to protest before he’s hauled to his feet and slammed up against the nearest tree, the wood cracking and creaking from the force Rick now possesses. He hooks an arm under Daryl’s left knee and hauls him up, slamming inside as soon as the hunter’s fingers are out of the way. He chokes on a scream, throwing his head back and feeling the indent he leaves in the trunk. Neither one of them can check themselves—Rick because this is all too new to him, and Daryl because he has no hope of control when it’s _Rick_ , and so they fuck with the same brutality they fight with, biting at one another and drawing blood. Daryl tastes copper and cum and moans as he drinks both down, writhing on Rick’s cock like the slut he knows he becomes for this man.

 _Fuck, fuck yes, yours,_ he thinks, moaning uninhibited as he babbles and begs and makes a whore out of himself, and Rick fucking eats it up and slams into him even harder until they have no choice but to step back, his lover holding him up entirely, because they just _broke the fucking_ _tree_. He looks back over his shoulder, gasping, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out like a bitch, and watches the thick, sturdy tree fall with an echoing crash that’s going to more than likely draw too much attention their way.

_C’mon, Rick, come on. Want your cum in me, want it like this._

Rick bares his teeth, his canines dropping with a quiet snick, and Daryl throws his head back obediently— _screams_ when those fangs sink into the side of his neck and he feels a flash of pain before it melts away into pleasure so powerful he can’t stop himself from coming, thrashing and writhing while Rick holds him through it and bites harder, growling and pounding into him and swamping Daryl with waves of possessiveness and love so strong he feels like he can’t breathe.

Rick pulls back and drags his tongue over the punctures, lapping them up along with his own cum and _purring_ as he bucks up one last time and comes with a muffled roar, his eyes blazing. There’s no time to enjoy the aftermath, the both of them filthy with cum and sweat and dirt, Daryl’s throat stained with new blood, because he can hear walkers getting closer.

Killing walkers while naked and with cum dripping out of his ass isn’t an experience Daryl would like to repeat in the future, but right now he can’t bring himself to feel anything but ridiculously turned on by how wild and feral Rick has become, his entire eye overtaken by swirling amber as he rips the walkers apart with his bare hands. Daryl almost gets bit on the arm because he’s so hypnotized by the fluid gracefulness that now flows through his lover, his muscles liquid and his violence lethal, his scent deepened to sex and musk and the woods Daryl loves so much.

“Pay attention, Daryl,” Rick rumbles at him, his fangs thick and gleaming when he smiles, and the archer snaps out of it in time to avoid a chunk being taken out of his bicep. He rips the walker’s head free from its shoulders and crushes the skull between his palms, ignoring the gore and viscera that runs down his wrists when he drops the mangled remains and steps over the corpse toward his leader, his lover, his _everything_. Rick looks at him, covered in blood and serene even despite that fact, and when he tilts his head down just slightly, the hunter lowers himself to his knees and tips his head back.

 _What’re we gonna do about Woodbury?_ He watches Rick approach through half-lidded eyes, his tongue flicking out over his lips to lap up some of the flavors mingling there. The Governor and his soldiers are slaughtered, as is only right, but there’s still an entire community full of people that they’re going to have to do something about. There are women and children there, people who probably didn’t know what the Governor was doing, even if they enjoyed the fights that clearly took place outside of the one Merle and Daryl were subjected to.

Tilting his head to the side, Rick runs his fingers through Daryl’s hair and works his cum even deeper into the strands, until only a good washing is going to untangle the wild mat it’s going to become. Daryl can’t bring himself to really mind it all that much, too content as he watches Rick and takes in his lover’s naked body and how different he is even though nothing has physically changed. There’s a new presence to him now, a new level to the darkness that is banked. He’s wild, just like Daryl, faster and stronger and freer than he was ever able to be before, and it suits him in a way that humanity never seemed to. He’s still calm, still balanced, but the hint of the threat is there in the way his teeth gleam when he smiles and the glitter of his eyes when they’re blue again.

“What do you think we should do, darlin’?”

_Think we should check it out and see what our options are._

“Even after what they did to you and Merle?”

Hearing his brother’s name is still painful, the loss still raw and bloody, but Daryl breathes through the pain the way he learned to a long time ago and nods. _Can’t all be bad, Rick. S’gotta be some good people there. If there are, we should make sure they’ll be okay, or bring ‘em in with us._

“And if they’re not?”

_Deal with ‘em accordingly._

Rick rumbles, pleased, and reaches out a hand to help him to his feet. His grip is too strong, the archer’s bones cracking beneath the untampered strength, and he hisses in pain. Rick narrows his eyes and lets go, flexing his fingers and staring down at them with dark curiosity.

“How long do you think this will take to get used to?”

Daryl watches him as he prowls toward the fallen tree, stepping over and around corpses and hopping up onto the trunk with the grace of a leaping lion, his muscles fluid and not a hint of hesitation when he lands. He pads down the length of it, climbing through the branches, and Daryl gets up to follow him faithfully, in awe of how confident and powerful Rick is. He’s taken to this like he’s been this way his entire life, leaping and climbing while Daryl follows like a lamb being led to slaughter, pliant and accepting because he knows there will be no death for him here, not with Rick to guide him.

 _Depends on how fast ya learn control_ , he finally answers, remembering belatedly that he was asked a question. That’s about the time that he realizes that Rick is heading toward Woodbury, intent on starting scouting out the people right now. It’s not a good idea, Daryl recognizes that even if Rick doesn’t, because he knows that Rick is going to get hungry again soon, and he’s already fed from people. There’s no telling if he’ll be tempted to do it again, and the archer would like to avoid that possibility, because they’re going to have enough trouble without adding that into the mix.

_Wait, Rick. Hold up._

His lover pauses in the act of crouching to jump off the tree trunk, near the thinner top of the downed poplar now. He looks down at Daryl, tilting his head to the side and rumbling. Their thoughts run the same lines now, so it’s not hard for him to pick up what the archer is worried about. Daryl watches his upper lip twitch like it’s about to curl back, his eyes darkening as his pupils glow bronze.

“You think I won’t be able to control myself?” It’s soft and dangerous, a predator slinking closer and circling Daryl, who turns to keep the man in his sights as he shows his own teeth. They’re like lions, like two wolves fighting for dominance, and Daryl knows he’s not going to win but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try.

_We’re naked, you’re newly changed, and yer already losin’ it. You’re growlin’ and showin’ yer teeth like I’m an enemy. What d’you think you’ll do ta them, if someone challenges you?_

Clearly it’s enough, because Rick pauses and rocks back on his heels, rumbling in displeasure and pacing in a tight, frustrated circle. He moves closer and closer, crowding Daryl back against the trunk of another tree and pinning him in with a hand on either side of his head. He leans in close, their breaths hot and mingling, and the archer can see his cock growing thick and hard at the scent of his cum drying and flaking off of Daryl’s skin—the slow dribble of more of it out of the hunter’s abused, empty hole.

“You sayin’ I can’t control myself?” he growls, dipping his head to press his nose against Daryl’s pulse, licking a wet, broad stripe against it. Daryl’s breath hitches quietly and he tilts his head back, an immediate and Pavlovian response to any kind of stimulus from Rick. He whines softly, bringing a hand up to run it through curls that are tangled and twisted around bits of twigs. There’s dirt on Rick’s shoulder, and he brushes it away before mouthing at the spot, the two of them falling together in a slow, sensual grind. He knows what he’s doing, lulling Rick into a false sense of security, and he feels a little shitty for it, but he also knows that it’s the only way to judge how much time they’re going to need. Rick doesn’t suspect anything, making deep, possessive sounds of delight as he licks and sucks and bites. His cock thrusts against Daryl’s hip, following the line of it, and his eyes flutter for a moment, the need to turn and offer himself up getting strong. It’s now or never, so he fights his instincts, just for the moment, and _bites_ , sinking his teeth into Rick hard enough to break skin and tear muscle.

Rick _roars_ , furious and ripping himself free, and he’s already bringing a clawed hand up to slap Daryl away when the archer ducks and spins out of the way. He watches his lover score deep gouges in the weak bark, wood splintering and cracking away, and backpedals quickly when the fledgling whirls around and lunges toward him.

_Rick!_

“Fuck, that _hurt_ , Daryl!” Rick shouts, his eyes swirling bronze and amber again and his fangs heavy against the shallow dip between his lower lip and his chin. “What the _fuck_.”

Daryl sneers, deliberately licking the blood from his own canines and his mouth just to watch the way his lover’s eyes flash darkly and he stalks forward. _Proved my point, didn’t I? If yer gonna get that pissed just from a little pain, what the fuck’re ya gonna do ta someone if they really make you angry?_

“A _little pain_?” The man wipes the blood away, the wound beneath already healed over, and holds up his hand so Daryl can see the way it clings to his fingertips and sinks into the whorls there. “Daryl, a rabid dog would have been kinder. I see what you mean, though, okay? You proved your point. So how do we control this?”

 _However we can,_ Daryl mutters, dropping into a crouch and putting his head lower to ease the tension he still sees thrumming through his lover’s muscles. _Preferably while clothed. Gonna have ta teach ya to control yer anger, just like when your hormones went nuts when you was a teenager, or whatever. ‘S the same principle, I guess._

“How long did it take you?” Rick curls his hand around the back of Daryl’s head, and the hunter lets himself be pulled forward with a happy sigh, tucking his nose beneath his lover’s heavy cock and breathing him in in short, deep huffs. His muscles shiver and twitch, his own cock filling, and he’s already craving the strength Rick possesses and how it will feel to be held down and _fucked_ , no way to wiggle free from the grips of a creature so much stronger than he is.

He answers Rick question with a snort, flicking his tongue cruelly against one of the man’s balls before pulling back and standing up. _The hell makes you think I ain’t still tryin’? Wasn’t like I had the greatest role models to follow, back then. Just had Merle’n our dad, and neither of them were shining examples of controlled people._

“So what you’re saying is that we’re screwed?” Rick actually _chuckles_ , like there’s something amusing about that. “I guess we could always ask Hershel. I don’t think anything rattles him.”

 _Except watching two people he’s been letting around his children rip other people apart with their bare hands and big fucking teeth,_ Daryl deadpans. Rick laughs harder, looping an arm around his neck and pulling him in to bite at his throat. His other hand drops to grip the archer’s hip, then trails back between his cheeks to press two fingers up inside of him. He jerks and moans, his eyes falling closed as he feels those fingers scissor wide and twist expertly. A third one slips in, and then he feels Rick’s pinky nudging in as well, stretching him a little wider than he’s used to. He _whines_ , spreading his legs and tilting his hips back, and can’t quite stop himself from biting at Rick’s strong, freckled shoulders and sucking in a mark that fades almost as soon as he leans back to admire it.

“Don’t overthink things, darlin’. It won’t be that bad. You’ll see.”

Rolling his eyes, Daryl hooks his foot around the back of Rick’s ankle and trips him, sending them both to the ground. The man snarls and snaps at him, and he growls back as he spreads his knees wide around his lover’s waist and sinks down on his cock. He smirks at the way the snarl changes to a crooning rumble, clawed hands digging into the skin above his hips and slamming him down while Rick’s hips buck up. The result is Daryl throwing his head back and crying out loudly, the needy noise frightening any wildlife nearby. He can’t help but laugh as he watches a doe and her fawn bound away, their white tails up and flicking, and then he’s distracted by a hand gripping the front of his throat and pulling him down into a rough, bruising kiss that’s a little violent and a lot fucking satisfying.

 _That’s it, alpha, show me what you got,_ he snarls as Rick rolls them. He hooks a leg over one of the man’s shoulders, tilting his hips to welcome everything. His eyes roll back, his head hitting the ground as he arches, and teeth sink into his throat again, the pleasure taking him to dizzying heights unlike anything he ever knew could exist.

“ _Mine_ ,” Rick snarls, and Daryl moans in agreement, raking bloody lines down the broad, strong back of his lover that rile Rick up even more—make him slam in deeper and harder, the ground around them torn up by their passion and their bodies littered with new and fading marks as their blood mixes and their flesh knits back together again and again.

 _Yours_ , he thinks, his eyes hooded and his mouth open as he pants raggedly and makes quiet little fucked-out noises. _Yours always, alpha._

“Always.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion about Woodbury is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all of this until the last, like, two pages worth. I tried to fix it up a little bit, and I'm happier with it now than I was, so I hope all of you enjoy it as well. If you see anything glaringly obvious that needs fixed, please do not hesitate to thwap me with a newspaper or something.

It takes a day and a half for Rick to realize that maybe he was too cocky to Daryl about keeping himself contained. Learning to control himself is _hard_ , and having Daryl constantly at his fingertips, reeking of his claim and still wearing his cum like a flaking layer of a particular type of brand, is driving all of his new heightened senses wild. He can _smell_ himself leaking out of the archer, can smell the wet cum dripping between the younger man’s thighs and how it carries traces of Daryl’s musky scent as well. It makes Rick want to slam him into every available tree until the entire forest comes down around them, nothing but shattered trunks and splintered branches left to mark their passion.

The most frustrating thing of it is, is that he can’t _stop himself_. If he’s not feeding, they’re fucking. If they’re miraculously not fucking or feeding, they’re working on trying to bring Rick’s roiling violence down to a manageable simmer. Rick hasn’t had one second to be alone, which is probably a good thing, because he knows the second Daryl is out of his sight he’ll go _insane_ and hunt his archer down like he’s prey, his fangs bared as his snarls echo through the trees.

_You got this, alpha. C’mon. Just breathe._

Daryl’s mental voice is rough and low, his words the perfect mixture of Southern slur and charm as his lover pads around him in a circle, watching how Rick turns to always keep him in his sights. He wants to lunge, wants to bite down and drink and _fuck_ until the archer is screaming and begging for more, or until he can’t beg at all. He wants them to hunt together, moving in silent synchronism, their muscles rippling in tandem as they track their next kill. Animal blood isn’t as filling to Rick as human blood, isn’t as flavorful on his tongue, but he recognizes the dangers of falling into that mindset, and what it could mean for their family.

“I _am_ breathing,” he snarls, his fangs heavy against his lower lips; the tips digging into the swell of his chin as he grinds his teeth and tries to calm his raging senses. He can hear a buck mounting a doe two miles away, the sounds of their mating and their heartbeats kicking his own need into overdrive. He can hear every fucking heartbeat for _miles_ , from the tiniest shrew to the hawk riding the thermals above them.

 _No, you’re **listenin**_ ’ _,_ Daryl corrects. He reaches up deliberately, the little shit, and rubs at some of the cum dried onto his throat, his eyes fluttering and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He’s baiting Rick on purpose, trying to get a rise out of him, and Rick is frankly amazed that his lover can still _move_ after everything he’s already done to him. _You ain’t focused, alpha. Yer senses are all over the place. Ya gotta bring that shit down, bring it in, and focus. Focus on me, on my heartbeat. Let it calm you._

“Hate to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but focusing on _you_ is not going to help me right now.” Rick stalks forward, and Daryl smoothly steps back. He keeps at least ten feet of space between them at all times, leading Rick like a leashed dog who cannot help but follow. He doesn’t mind the comparison, because it’s pretty accurate when it comes to how he’s drawn to Daryl. His archer is unlike anyone or anything he’s ever seen before, every inch of him calm and Zen-like as his thoughts reach out to brush against Rick’s, soothing him from his frenetic emotions until his breathing slows and his muscles uncoil. He hears young, quick heartbeats, but they don’t sound frightened. They sound calm, and when he pulls himself from his instincts enough to _focus_ , he turns his head a little and sees the glimmer of chain fencing through the trees. Inhaling deeply, he smells cedar and melon; smells formula and sweet innocence and raspberries, and he rumbles happily

“Carl,” he murmurs, feeling drunk and lazy as his nostrils flare and he sucks in a deeper breath. “Judith. Sophia.” He looks at Daryl, who is leaning against a nearby tree with his eyes closed and a tiny smile on his face. “You brought me home, darlin’.”

_Knew they would probably help a bit. Takes time, alpha, but ya got this. Just a little more’n you can hold ‘em again. Can listen to ‘em laugh and know that they’ll always be safe with you, no matter what. Just a bit longer, an’ they’ll be so happy to see you. Bet Li’l Asskicker will giggle and smack yer face an’ it won’t even matter none._

“Li’l Asskicker,” Rick repeats, chuckling and shaking his head as he turns and heads deeper into the forest again. Daryl trails behind him, a comforting presence at his shoulder that makes Rick’s instincts settle further with a pleased rumble. “Guess that’s an acceptable nickname. Better than babydoll or somethin’, I guess.”

 _Hell of a lot better than sweetums,_ Daryl snorts at him. He feels a shift in the air, like a moment of hesitation, and then Daryl’s palm is sliding against his, their fingers tangling together in a way that makes him smile and squeeze reassuringly.

“Why do you call me alpha?” he murmurs as they walk along. It’s easier for him to stay focused right now, the steady thumps of his children’s heartbeats still loud and constant. He leans on them as his anchor, leans on Daryl too, and feels immeasurably grateful that his lover understands how important his offspring is to him—even if Judith isn’t biologically his. She’s still his daughter, still Daryl’s too for the sheer fact that he brought her into their lives.

 _Always seemed like one ta me,_ his hunter mutters, his mental voice tinged with embarrassment as his thumb sweeps across Rick’s knuckles. _I know we ain’t wolves, and this ain’t a pack situation, but ‘s how my mind runs. ‘S a hell of a lot better than callin’ ya_ baby _. So’s I call ya alpha. You ain’t complained. Seem ta like me sayin’ it, so I ain’t stopped._

Rick chuckles, trying to ignore the fact that it’s a little strained. They’re getting out of range now, he can’t hear his family’s heartbeats again, and as he smells the ripe scent of rut and hears the fast flow of blood through the frantically-beating hearts of prey, his instincts rise to the forefront again. He rumbles, gripping Daryl’s hand tight enough that the man hisses quietly, and then lets go like he’s been burned and turns to face his sire.

Daryl stares back at him, his pupils blown wide and his fangs slowly dropping while Rick watches. He’s wild and fierce, reserved and quiet by nature but still more than capable of carving a path of destruction wherever he goes. He can meet Rick easily, can trade him blow for blow with just as much power behind each strike. His archer makes him feel _alive_ , and Rick hadn’t realized until he woke up in agony, desperate for the blood he’d been denied while turning, that for so long he’d drifted through a state of discontent. He’d gone through the motions of life, watching it pass him by but feeling untouched by anything, until the day he’d looked up from the corpses of walkers who couldn’t best him, had seen the man and his brother approaching him, and his breath had caught a little as he’d watched the predator prowl closer and something like _life_ had stirred in him.

Things are different now. There is no hesitation, no guarded movements. Rick lays Daryl back against the forest floor and slides his body against the archer’s. They nuzzle and lick at one another, their fangs making it hard to properly kiss, and Daryl whines when Rick scrapes his canines very carefully across the front of his lover’s throat. The younger man spreads his legs and lets him settle between them, their cocks lining up and grinding with every slow roll of their hips, their pre-cum mixing and slicking over both of them until their scents are so intertwined it’s almost impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“I love you, Daryl,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a husky rumble, and nails drag down his back hard enough to make him shudder, but never come close to breaking skin. Daryl whines and tilts his head back, offering his throat—chokes on a moan when Rick slides an arm under one of his hunter’s knees and spreads him wide. He’s completely on display, already sheened in sweat and streaked with dirt and dried cum. He’s _gorgeous_ , and Rick feels more in control of himself than he has in days even though his instincts are still new and roiling. They calm at Daryl’s touch, croon at his submission and the way he opens himself up even wider so Rick can see a little bit more of his own cum leak out of his lover and drip toward the ground.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. Can’t even begin to describe it in words. Bet you feel it though, don’t you?” Rocking forward, he nudges the head of his cock against the loosened opening and breathes until his fangs retract—watches Daryl look at him through glazed, hooded eyes and do the same so they can kiss properly as he presses deep into the younger man’s welcoming body and groans like it’s the first time again when hot, eager muscles clench around him and pull him deeper.

 _Feel it,_ Daryl whimpers, his mind voice tattered and thick as his nails dig harder into Rick’s shoulder blades and he arches his hips up to chase every slow, teasing withdraw and welcome every push back in. _Feel it always, Rick. C’mon, harder, please._

“There’s been more than enough of that these last few days.” Bracing a forearm against the ground, he leans down until his chest is pressed against Daryl’s and he can nuzzle behind one sensitive ear; drags his tongue against the soft, thin skin and sucks hard enough for the archer to jerk up and drag Rick’s cock against his prostate. He _sobs_ at that and his legs wrap tightly around Rick’s waist, dragging him down again and again until he growls warningly and nips the shell of his lover’s ear to reprimand him. “No, Daryl,” he rumbles quietly, using his free hand to stroke soothingly up and down the archer’s side, calming him until he huffs and thumps his head back against the ground.

 _Don’t want slow an’ sweet right now, Rick_ , he grumbles, baring his teeth at the sky in frustration. His eyes slam shut when Rick angles his hips just right and nails his prostate, a stuttered groan working free. He’s so gorgeous, so unburdened by everything like this—his long bangs sticking to his face from the sweat and his throat littered with bruises that fade as Rick watches them, leaving behind a blank canvas for him to scatter more works of passion and devotion across.

“Well I do, sweetheart, so you just enjoy it and let me feel you. Think you can do that for me?”

Daryl’s reply is a growl and the slight tensing of his muscles before he rolls them over. Rick doesn’t fight him, doesn’t try to take the more dominant position back. Instead, he settles his hands on his lover’s hips and helps to guide them as they roll up and down. His archer is a vision like this, his head thrown back and his whimpers and moans flowing freely as he raises and lowers himself on Rick’s cock. He can’t help but glance down the length of his body to watch himself disappear into Daryl’s body again and again, gritting his teeth and trying not to slam his hips up into that clenching heat. All Rick wants to do is fuck the hunter until he can’t move, until Daryl is so full of Rick’s cum that he’ll never get it all out—will never get Rick’s claim off his skin.

From the looks of it, Daryl wouldn’t even protest. He’s so lost in the feelings, their emotions flowing back and forth in an endless loop until it’s impossible to distinguish who is feeling what. Rick’s growling and groaning, his nails digging into his archer’s hips until there are indents and the skin around them is white. Daryl shudders and keens, coming so hard he can’t keep himself from writhing even as he slams down and rolls his hips continuously, refusing to let Rick leave him even an inch as he rides out his orgasm and pants through the aftermath. The uncontrolled clenching and rippling of his muscles makes Rick see starts until he comes too, his vision blacking out and his roar echoing through the forest as he surges up and bites the side of Daryl’s throat.

This bite doesn’t feel like the multitude of other bites he’s given Daryl since his turn. His gums burn and itch, and Daryl _mewls_ and comes again, his claws tearing Rick’s back to ribbons as his lover rolls them over and arches up against him.

 _Yes, yes please alpha, please,_ he begs brokenly, and Rick bites a little harder and locks his jaw to keep the archer exactly where he wants him—not that he’s worried about Daryl trying to get away, because if anything, the man is trying to drag him _closer_ , like he thinks if they’re pressed together hard enough that they’ll become one cohesive entity instead of two halves of a perfect whole. Rick continues to rock his hips in little shifting movements, pulling out and trailing streams of cum across the forest floor before pushing back in and purring around the blood welling up on his tongue.

He doesn’t drink much this time, but his fangs are pulsing and Daryl is _losing his mind_ , gasping and keening and making the most fucked-out, desperate sounds he’s ever heard come out of his archer. Rick rumbles in pleasure and delight, reaching down to rub his fingers over his lover’s dripping cock and coating them in cum before pressing them to the man’s lips. He closes his eyes as Daryl sucks on them eagerly, writhing beneath him until he hits some sort of peak and slumps back with a quiet whimper. His teeth close gently around Rick’s knuckles, holding them in place while he sucks, and his lover doesn’t protest when he can’t help but nudge them deeper, just to see how much the gorgeous creature beneath him can stand to take.

When his mouth stops burning and his fangs retract with a click he feels more than hears, Rick sits back and gathers Daryl close to him, his eyes rolling back a little at the way their shifting pushes him deeper into his hunter’s body. He growls and tries to pull out, but Daryl snarls back at him and clamps his knees tightly—slams back down and sinks his fangs into Rick’s shoulder.

 _Not yet,_ he hisses, and Rick chokes on his own oxygen as he feels something like pure, untamed _heat_ pulse through him, radiating out from where Daryl’s mouth is sealed against the curve of his shoulder. His hips buck as he thrashes, every fiber of him trying to chase the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt in his entire life. He thinks he even comes again, but he can’t be sure. At one point he rolls them over and slams Daryl against the ground hard enough that it probably hurts; bites his lover again and feels his mouth throbbing as Daryl _screams_ against his torn, bleeding flesh and their bodies undulate together.

The world becomes nonexistent, everything burning away until it’s just them. As the euphoria lessens to something more manageable, their tempo slows to match the steady throbbing of their hearts and minds. They roll together smoothly, frantic fucking giving way to something a lot more tender. One of Daryl’s hands cups the back of his head, and Rick lays his palm against his archer’s rough cheek when their bloody mouths meet in a slow, ravenous kiss. They _devour_ each other, their nerves lighting like sparks as their worlds collide like a comet impacting the earth, heat and fire exploding in a euphoric collision that slowly sizzles into something much more contained. Daryl makes another quiet mewling noise and Rick responds with a sweet rumble of his own, their sweaty skin marked and bloodied from their desperation.

Once they finally separate, he doesn’t let the archer up and Daryl doesn’t ask him to. His lover lays back with his eyes mostly closed, watching Rick with the barest slivers of blues as he begins to lick up all of the dirt and other various bodily fluids that cover his gorgeous hunter. He’ll find them a creek to bathe in later, but for now all he wants to do is lick every inch of Daryl clean.

Every inch.

When he urges the man to roll over and lift his hips, Daryl whines through gritted teeth when he feels Rick’s tongue dragging against his gaping, used hole. He licks his own cum out of Daryl’s ass, tasting all of the mingled flavors and nuzzling in for more with a happy groan. This should be a sexual act in its own right, but there’s no need to take it any further. They’ve had their fun, and now it’s time for him to take care of his sire, his _lover_ , the way Daryl deserves to be cared for.

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers between long drags of his tongue. There’s gritty dirt and salty sweat coating his mouth, and Rick hums happily as he goes back for more. He lets Daryl roll onto his back again and licks at his knee until the archer twitches and tries to pull away from the no-doubt ticklish sensation. Rick lays a hand on his thigh and looks up at him, waiting until the man stills with a relaxed sigh before he goes back to it.

 _Got nothin’ on you,_ Daryl sighs quietly, reaching down to run his fingers through Rick’s hair carefully. The feel of nails scratching against his scalp is wonderfully relaxing, and he has to pause for a moment to lay his cheek on Daryl’s thigh and just bask in the easy affection that passes between them now. He knows his lover isn’t quite where he should be in terms of his own self-esteem, but he’s slowly getting better with so much positive reinforcement surrounding him.

“You’ve got everything and more, Daryl. Everything I ever wanted.”

The younger man snorts, but when Rick looks up at him he’s smiling shyly, and sure fingers stroke over his beard before a thumb rubs across his lower lip. He curls his tongue out to flick at it playfully, and Daryl smiles wider before trying to coax him up into another kiss. Rick obeys eagerly, holding himself up on one arm and laying the other over the bite on his lover’s neck, over the bite that has yet to heal. His own shoulder stings a little bit, but it’s not painful like he thought it would be, so it’s easily ignored as their mouths meet in a slow, sweet greeting and they pass feelings between one another that can never be mistaken, because they were never twisted by faulty tongues.

 _I love you, darlin’,_ he thinks, and Daryl shudders beneath him and opens his mouth wider, rubbing a hand between Rick’s shoulders and urging him closer.

 _Love you too, Rick,_ the archer whispers, shy but sure, and Rick’s heart swells like the rising sun as Daryl’s eyes sparkle like cleansing rivers, the two meeting and warming one another as their bodies twine and their souls thread together in a way that not even death can unravel.

 

 

 

It takes another day before either of them feel comfortable bringing Rick around the others. He’s still far from perfect, but they need to figure out what they’re going to do about the Woodbury community. Those people can’t be left alone too much longer, and they’ll probably start to wonder soon where their leader and his men have gone, if they haven’t started wondering already.

Glenn meets them at the gate, smiling and smelling as genuinely relieved as he looks. “Hey guys,” he laughs, giving them each a look up and down before he waggles his eyebrows. “Looks like you had fun.”

“Guess that’s one way you could put it,” Rick chuckles, shaking his head and waiting for the Asian man to let them in. There are walkers getting closer—more new corpses out in the woods than can probably be counted by one person. Daryl’s dragging a buck behind him, one of the more recent casualties of Rick’s hunger. He’d killed it just before they’d decided to come back, the both of them cleaner than they’ve been in days and finally clothed again. Rick doesn’t like the feel of the denim against his newly-sensitive skin, but he figures it’s something he’s going to have to get used to—something he _will_ get used to the more settled he becomes.

At least his shirt is comfortable.

Daryl shoves at Glenn’s shoulder playfully as they all walk up the driveway together, but when his hunter stops Rick does as well. He already knows what he’s going to see when he follows Daryl’s gaze—the freshly-dug graves where their loved ones have been laid to rest. When the younger man turns and starts heading that way, Rick follows close behind while Glenn waits for them. Bless the man’s intuition and knowing that they’ll want to say goodbye on their own.

Shane’s grave has been marked with the necklace he never took off, the silver _22_ clean and swaying gently in the breeze before clinking back against the rough-hewn boards of his cross. On his left is Merle, whose wrist cuff has been affixed to his own grave marker via a nail they’ve hooked the buckle through. On the right is Lori’s grave, and Rick feels a pang of sorrow when he looks at her heart locket necklace. Daryl presses against his side, whining quietly, and they crouch together to say their goodbyes, one of his arms over his lover’s back to offer him the support he so desperately needs as he says goodbye to his brother and Rick bids farewell to the two people who were in his life the longest—two of the people he loved the most, both in very different ways. Shane was his soul brother, his best friend through thick and thin from almost the moement they met. Lori was his first love, the mother of his son and the rock he leaned gratefully upon for years before their differences began to slowly drive them apart.

At least they all could remain friends, even though Lori chose Shane. Rick has never hated them for loving one another, and he knows they never judged him for choosing Daryl. Beautiful, hurting Daryl, who is running his fingers over the loose dirt of Merle’s grave while silent tears run down his face. His soul is a riot of emotions, so many different pains and angers that he never got to hash out, and now he never will.

 _We had a shitty life, but he tried his best fer me._ Daryl’s mind-voice is rough and thick, and he turns to press his face against Rick’s throat. Hot tears make him shiver, the scent of salt and sorrow ripening the air until his nose itches. He presses a kiss to his lover’s temple, crooning low in his throat. _Was an asshole, most’a th’ time, but he weren’t ever really able ta be no different. Not ‘round our daddy, at least._

“You don’t have to do this now, Daryl. It’s okay.”

 _Gotta, Rick. Just… let me. I gotta._ The body against his shivers, more tears falling, and Rick gathers him closer so they can sit and Daryl can lean back against his chest, facing away until he decides he’s ready to turn around. Rick feels the deep, shaky breath he takes and pets a hand across the archer’s chest, rumbling soothingly and feeding him whatever strength and support he can accept.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Daryl nods—a quick, jerky up-and-down bob of his head, and grips Rick’s knee tightly. _He tried ta protect me, in his own way. Would bait our ol’ man an’ get th’ anger focused on him, ‘stead’a me. Worked most’a th’ time too, th’ fuckin’ prick, until he got hauled off ta jail again for somethin’ or other. Usually drugs. Was th’ only thing he couldn’t never give up. Was his only way ta escape, I guess, when he weren’t out in the woods with me. Me, I had the woods, an’ I had dad. An’ when Merle would get dragged off, there weren’t no one ta take his mind off’a me._

Daryl laughs, and it is not a happy sound. His shoulders are shaking, his scent dark and bitter, and Rick kisses the bite that has slowly begun to scar on the side of his throat; nuzzles against it and feels the hunter slowly relaxing again.

_Always hated that Merle would take th’ beatin’s that was meant fer me, then turn ‘round an’ call me a pussy an’ tell me ta grow a pair. I know he was jus’ tryin’ ta make me stronger, for when he weren’t able ta be there, an’ it kinda worked. So I guess his lessons always stuck better’n dad’s, even though his always left visible reminders._

“Merle threatened me a few times,” Rick murmurs, chuckling at the memories that feel like they happened so long ago. Has it really been less than a year since they’ve all come together? It feels like it’s been so much longer because of everything that’s happened.

The words have the desired effect, because Daryl turns to look back at him curiously. _He what?_

“Oh yeah. Way back when we were still on the road, and then before I went out looking for you after Lori’s miscarriage. Threatened to do horrible things to me if I ever hurt you in any way, or forced you to do something you didn’t want to do in order to benefit myself.” Running his fingers through Daryl’s clean hair, he rubs some strands between his thumb and forefinger and marvels at how long and dark it’s gotten in such a short amount of time. There are still hints of gold tucked in amongst the brunet strands, and it’s gotten long enough to cover his ears and partially hide his face when he wants it to. It suits him a lot more than that dirty blonde did—this is natural, and Rick likes everything natural about his lover.

He grins when Daryl chuckles quietly, the sound a little warbled still but full of affection and amusement. _He would, too, the fuckin’ asshole. Always did shit like that, even when it weren’t needed. Prick._

“Yeah, well, that prick loved you a lot, even if he didn’t show it in the greatest ways. He was proud of you, Daryl; prouder than you’ll probably ever realize. Just remember that, yeah?”

Daryl makes a quiet, nondescript noise before letting the last of the dirt fall between his fingers and standing up. _C’mon, enough’a this sissy shit. Let’s get inside and check on everyone else. Wanna see how Li’l Asskicker is doin’._

Rick is just as eager to see the others, so he accepts the hand his archer offers and lets himself be hauled to his feet. Before he lets go, he pulls Daryl into a quick, nuzzling kiss before leading them back to where Glenn is waiting. The Asian man perks up when he sees them coming back, and offers a sympathetic smile as he pats them both on their shoulders.

“C’mon, everyone’s been really worried,” he says quietly. There’s a calmness to him that Rick had never noticed before, and he tilts his head curiously as the younger man leads the way back to the Block. Glenn has always been a more level-headed person than some of the other members of their group, but now that Rick’s senses are a lot stronger and sharper, he’s noticing things that he never had before—like how Daryl smells like the Georgia soil and the fierce wilderness, and how Glenn radiates a serenity that goes a long way to calming those in his presence.

Daryl drops the buck just beyond the steps to be prepared later and they head inside, winding their way through the dim hallways toward the Block. Before they get to the door, his lover presses a hand against his hip to draw his attention. _Remember to breathe, and stay calm,_ he murmurs soothingly. _S’gonna take a moment for ya ta adjust, now that things’re different for ya. It’s a lot ta process. Just breathe, alpha. You got this._

Glenn looks between them curiously when Rick pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. He can already smell the rest of his family, although their scents are slightly muted by the closed door. He can tell exactly where everyone is standing, and who’s up on the catwalk (Beth and Judith), and what they all had for breakfast (rabbit and oatmeal). It’s overwhelming _now_ , listening to so many strong, healthy heartbeats. Even Hershel, who is older, has a powerful tempo that is more lulling than riling. It inspires peace in Rick, but what really does it for him is listening to Judith’s sweet giggles and Carl’s excited voice as he talks to Michonne. His children are happy, and calm, and so Rick calms in turn and takes another slow, measured breath before he pushes open the door.

“Dad!”

Carl slams into him hard enough to send him stumbling. Luckily Daryl is behind him, and the archer braces them with a soft chuckle while Rick is distracted by trying to hug his son tightly and not break any of his bones.

“Yeah, we’re back. Everything okay here?” He breathes Carl’s scent in, smiling when it reminds him of cedar and something vaguely smoky. “Were you good for Hershel?”

“He was, Rick,” the older man says, pushing himself up carefully and making his way over to them on his crutches. His smile is welcoming, although Rick can sense a hint of tension that still hasn’t managed to leave his friend and it makes him uneasy—makes him shift a little bit to put himself between the man and his lover as he swallows down the rumble that wants to spill free and tries to think logically. He supposes it’s understandable, considering that they found out about Daryl in one of the worst possible ways—found out about him as well, and he was probably a lot more horrific to witness than Daryl, who has had years to learn control unlike Rick, who had been newly turned and completely feral at that point. That doesn’t make it any easier to let that tension around his archer, even if he _knows_ that Hershel is no threat. It’s a lot harder to settle his instincts, but he tries regardless.

He knows he’s still a little too far into feral, but it’s much more tempered now. With Daryl as his anchor and his family surrounding him, he feels calmer than he has in days. His lover presses against his back and nuzzles his bitten shoulder, where he knows he’s got a scar that almost matches the one the archer has on his throat. His hair isn’t long enough to hide it, and Maggie is a perceptive woman, so of course she’s the first one to see it.

“That looks like it was fun to get,” she comments innocently, so of _course_ everyone else has to get a good look at it, pressing close and generally being shameless. Daryl huffs and growls good-naturedly at all of them, rolling his eyes, but the archer doesn’t lose his temper or snap at any of them. He’s a lot calmer than he used to be, a lot more relaxed than Rick was expecting, and he feeds into his lover’s amused exasperation with his own love until both of them are grinning and Michonne makes a quiet noise through her smile.

“You two are disgustingly sappy, you know that?”

“And also disgustingly happy,” Rick agrees, and it’s totally worth the punch to the shoulder he gets from Daryl, because the younger man is blushing slightly while trying to scowl and failing spectacularly.

 _Fuckin’ stop,_ he mutters, and Rick can’t help but kiss one of his warm cheeks and laugh at how much redder and more flustered he becomes.

They all settle easily after that, grouped together at two of the tables even though it’s a bit of a tight squeeze. None of them care about bumping elbows or being squashed into each other’s sides—why would they, after everything they’ve been through. Daryl is holding Judith and feeding her, crooning quietly to the infant with a smile on his face while Sophia sits as close to him as she can get without actually climbing onto his lap. Carol is on his other side, leaning against him without jostling Judith and resting her head on his shoulder.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Rick begins, and that draws every gaze toward him like magnets finding their match. It’s a little more overwhelming than it used to be, because now he’s battling his instincts and his gums ache around his canines even though he’s fed recently. He has to take several calming breaths, and all of them wait patiently, understanding that he needs a moment even if they don’t quite understand what’s racing through his mind currently. He hasn’t been around anyone but Daryl in _days_ , and now he’s got to lay out a plan for his family that could potentially involve bringing in other people and he feels like his carefully-won control is fraying at the seams. He’s going to be around people who _don’t know_ , or only know what they saw when Daryl had Merle pinned to the ground in their arena, his fangs out and ready to kill.

“What’s on your mind, Rick?” Hershel prompts, leaning forward slightly and giving his undivided attention. He’s got a serenity that is very similar to Glenn’s, but aged and a lot steadier. Rick latches onto it gratefully and glances at Daryl, who looks up from Judith’s face and gives him a subtle nod. The swell of love that flows through their bond makes him close his eyes for a moment and just soak in his archer’s quiet strength and affection. A little more of him settles and he opens his eyes again.

“I want to see how Woodbury is surviving now that the Governor is dead.”

Maggie and Glenn sit up straighter at that, their eyes wide. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she ventures, glancing toward Daryl like the man will have a negative reaction to hearing Rick’s plan when they’ve already discussed it.

“Is it safe?” Glenn adds, frowning. “It didn’t exactly end very well the last time we came into contact with them.”

“That was entirely the Governor,” Rick rumbles, and just thinking of the man who shot him—who would have killed him and all of his loved ones if not for Daryl—makes him bare his teeth. His eyes burn a little, and Carl makes a surprised noise at the same time that Daryl’s head snaps up and his nostrils flare, his eyes wide.

_Breathe. He ain’t won, Rick. You’re right here. ‘M here too. We beat him, alpha. Just breathe._

Rick breathes until his instincts are under control again, his claws shrinking back into blunt nails and the gouges he’s dug in his palms healing before any blood drips to the floor. Fixing his eyes unerringly on Daryl, he draws as much comfort from the man as his lover is willing to give—which turns out to be a steady stream of unending support and Zen-like relaxation that makes his tense muscles uncoil and lets him focus on the task at hand.

“Not all of them can be like that. A lot of them probably only went there for protection. The Governor was a charming man. He could have fooled them easily and left them unaware of what he was really doing.” He looks away from Daryl to Michonne, who knows better than any of them what the Governor was like. Daryl was caught by the man, was tortured horrendously, but she was in Woodbury for longer than he was, so if anyone knows what they could be facing, it will be her.

“They’re good people, for the most part,” the katana-wielding woman says quietly, looking at every single one of them and making sure they’re actually looking back at her. “A lot of them are completely unaware of the world beyond their walls, and they were just looking for safety. They didn’t know what he was really like. He hid that part of himself very well from them. If he suspected a mutiny, it was dealt with quietly and he always told the others a compelling story, and they ate it up.” She shakes her head slowly, her dreadlocks swaying. “They’re naïve, not stupid. If we bring them in, a lot of them will learn fast. Those who don’t, who were the most loyal to him, they’ll leave on their own or we’ll deal with them as needed.” Her dark eyes meet Rick’s own curious gaze again, and she nods at him. He nods back and turns his attention to the rest of his family.

A mixture of apprehension and agreement meets him. Not everyone is on board with this potential merge, but that’s okay. They don’t have to do anything right away, and he tells them as much. “This isn’t an absolute certainty,” he soothes. His hands find his hips and he toys with his gun belt, stroking a finger against the handle of his colt as he ponders what other options they could have. “It’s not something that has to be decided upon right now. Daryl and I have talked about it a little bit, but we wanted to bring the ultimate decision to the rest of you. We’re a family, and we’ll make this choice as one.”

Hershel looks at Rick like he’s proud of him, like Rick is his son, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with what that does to him. He smiles at the man, tilting his head slightly, and his eyes stray back to Daryl. Daryl, who is rocking Judith while she sleeps and watching her with a look on his face that is so fragile and full of love that it takes his breath away. He knows his hunter, knows it will take him time to get used to more people if they do decide to bring in the Woodbury folks—knows how hard it will be to have to look at the people who roared for him to fight his brother, who _enjoyed_ doing so, and be okay with them being protected by the same fences as his family.

 _Any issues will be dealt with, darlin’, you know they will be,_ he thinks, catching the archer’s eyes when he glances up and holding his guarded stare. _I won’t let anything happen to them. Or to you._

 _Ain’t what I’m worried about,_ his lover mutters. He huffs quietly and gets up, bringing Judith to Rick and laying their baby girl in his arms. He smiles down at her sleeping face and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, crooning quietly and feeling the barely-there brush of Daryl’s fingers across his shoulders before his lover goes to clean and gut the buck and get their family some much-needed meat.

Looking up to watch him go, Rick rumbles possessively and doesn’t notice how his eyes flash, dark blue overtaken for a few beats by swirling amber and bronze as he tracks his hunter’s movements through the prison.

 _Mine,_ he thinks, glancing toward the others and narrowing his eyes as his instincts push at him to put himself between his lover and these others. A strong pulse of amusement and a hint of irritation makes his head swing around, his nostrils flaring.

_Yours, alpha, ya know that. Breathe. It’ll be okay._

Rick breathes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something needs to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I suck.
> 
> If anyone is still reading this/waiting for the updates, I am so, _so_ sorry it's taken so long. ._. Real life went a bit wonky for a little bit, between work and other shit, and my inspiration for my wips went *poof*. It JUST came back, literally a few hours ago, and that's why you're all getting this now. If there are any horrendous inaccuracies, please do not hesitate to let me know.
> 
> Thank you, highermagic, for your unending patience and support. And also for not kicking me in the face for taking so long.
> 
> >.>
> 
> So. Uh. Here you guys go.
> 
> *runs away*

It takes three weeks to completely move the Woodbury folks into the prison. By the end of the _first_ week, everyone knows that something needs to change. It’s not that the Woodbury people don’t settle in well. They take to life at the prison far easier than Daryl had been expecting, for the most part. He’s watched a few of the Governor’s more loyal followers slink away in the middle of the night, and a few of them have been escorted to the repaired gates—where Michonne found those slabs of steel, he isn’t sure, but they’ve come in very handy—by some of their own friends. The law has been laid down very firmly, and everyone has found a way to pitch in and do their part.

Everyone has settled in well.

The problem is _Rick._

After the fourth time he has to pull his lover away before the bronze hinting at the edges of his eyes has completely taken over, Daryl drags the fledgling down into the deeper parts of the corridors, where light is a distant memory and the lurking shadows can hold the promise of walkers just as easily as nothing at all. Once they’re far enough away from the others to avoid any serious repercussions, and hopefully far enough away that the noise will be muffled, if not entirely unheard, he spins to face Rick and bares his teeth deliberately.

Rick paces like a caged lion, his own thicker fangs lengthening quickly and his eyes glowing in the gloom as he reacts to Daryl’s challenge. His growl is a deep, bass rumble, and the way his fingers twitch and hook tells the archer all he needs to know.

 _Gotta get this shit under control, Rick,_ he whispers, letting his words dip low and hint at a croon as he slinks forward. His muscles turn liquid, and he can smell the pheromones he’s already pumping out at being so close to his lover. Rick reacts to them immediately, his nostrils flaring as he prowls closer as well and dips his head to rub his nose against Daryl’s throat when he willingly tips it back for the older man. _Can’t have ya scarin’ the immigrants every time ya think someone’s challengin’ ya. Promise ya they ain’t._

“Immigrants?” Rick snorts, and his words are so low, so thick and garbled as more swirling bronze and amber start to creep across his eyes, that the archer almost doesn’t understand him. If not for their connection, if not for the fact that he _knows_ Rick, just as well as Rick knows every part of him, now, Daryl would have asked for clarification. As it stands, he just rolls his head to the side and offers more of his neck to the scrape and nip of those formidable teeth, shivering and whining quietly when they drag across a sensitive spot and goosebumps sweep down his arms and his spine.

 _S’what they are, ain’t they?_ He looks at Rick from the sides of his stinging eyes, which he knows are bleeding to sulfur-yellow in response to his lover’s intentions. Rick sees his reaction, smells his need, and the man purrs as he bodily herds Daryl back until his shoulders press against the wall behind him, his spine arching gracefully to fit his body against the fledgling’s as his legs spread welcomingly. His lover takes the open invitation, their cocks grinding together through layers of denim and cloth, and the archer tries to choke down his next whine as his fingers come up to tangle in Rick’s riotous curls and bring his mouth closer.

“They’re our people, now,” the man breathes against his mouth, and Daryl nods, because at least Rick can remember that much. He’s rewarded with a kiss, his mouth falling open and his next sound spilling free with no barrier to hold it back. It’s lost in Rick’s throat, swallowed down and coming back up as a growl when his lover shifts against him and presses closer, a hand dropping to ruck up his shirt and palm at the side of his waist. The touch sears like fire, like claiming, and Daryl bites at his leader’s lips playfully as he tries to wiggle free, tries to make Rick work for it the way their instincts sing for them to.

Daryl may be a submissive, may bend beneath the power of Rick, but he’s had longer to learn himself. His control still isn’t the greatest, but he’s leaps and bounds more stable than Rick, who is still an infant with his fangs and clearly still driven more by his instincts and his emotions than rationality. That’s why Rick digs his nails in, the blunt ends sharpening to tips and his swirling amber-bronze eyes cutting through the murky shadows to lock with Daryl’s own gleaming yellow gaze.

“Where do you think you’re goin, darlin’?” his lover rumbles, his lips twitching into a grin that bares his teeth. Daryl grins back, his own canines a little shorter, a little thinner, but no less dangerous when push comes to shove.

 _Nowhere,_ he purrs, and he sees the twitch and jump of Rick’s muscles just as easily as he feels them, his own body lithe and sensual as he rubs against the fledgling on his way past. He gets free and darts out of reach of the claws that grab for him, tilting his head and offering the long, tanned line of his nape when he hears Rick’s warning hiss. He’s not trying to run away—on the contrary, he’s more than eager to bend against the wall and offer himself up. Rick needs to be distracted, though, he needs to be _calm_ before they rejoin the others, and Daryl knows that nothing riles his lover up more than a game of chase. It also leaves him a lot more mellow in the aftermath, his instincts sated and settled.

“Looks like you’re goin’ _somewhere_ ,” Rick replies, his voice impossibly lower and rich with eager promise as he prowls after Daryl. The archer flashes a grin over his shoulder, leading the way down the corridor, and once he gets to the end he pauses enough to tease Rick, letting him draw closer and taste the victory he’s so sure will be his.

 _Catch me if ya can_. Daryl gives no other warning as he turns left and takes off, leaving Rick to lunge with a snarl and catch nothing but air as he bolts further into the maze of hallways and dead-ends, tempering his speed enough to keep from crashing, but moving swiftly enough that Rick has to work to keep up with him.

“Daryl!” Rick snarls after the third time his claws scrape the back of the hunter’s shirt, coming up empty again. “When I get a hold of you, darlin’, you’d best be ready.” It’s a warning and a promise wrapped into a deep, silky purr that makes him shiver and tremble with anticipation, sweat beading at his throat and his lower belly clenching from the eagerness warming his blood. He chances a glance over his shoulder, slipping around another turn and catching the delighted flash of Rick’s eyes, the eager grin stretching his mouth wide, and he knows he’s made the right choice.

As fun as it would be to _let_ Rick catch him, to slow down just enough so that the next grab the man makes for him actually pulls him back, he knows that won’t work. Their instincts will settle for nothing less than an honest win, and Rick’s dominant pride will not accept an easy defeat. Daryl’s own instincts won’t accept a partner who cannot keep up with him, who cannot catch and conquer him and prove himself worthy, and even though this is a game they’ve played many times now, he never tires of the thrill of it.

If they were out in the forest, he knows it would take longer. Rick may be the physically stronger one, but Daryl’s a lot faster. His lover has always relied on his cleverness, even before his turn. Now, even though his speed is something to inspire fear in the hearts of his enemies, it’s his _mind_ that is the truly terrifying thing. Rick solves problems and plans strategies between one blink and the next, and Daryl _knows_ this. In hindsight, he should have realized that even running on adrenaline and instinct, Rick’s mind is still active and whirring, but he’s having too much _fun_ , enjoying this brief moment of just them. He knows better than to underestimate his opponent, but he knows Rick would never hurt him, not like that, and it makes him a little too compliant.

The game comes to an end abruptly, leaving Daryl reeling, when he turns a corner and expects another long stretch of shadowed hallway, and instead he nearly slams into the wall of the dead end Rick has been herding him to this whole time. He bites out a hiss, his muscles tense and ready, and feels the hot wisp of breath on his nape a split second before Rick’s bulk hits his back and forces him against the cold concrete.

“Gotcha,” Rick growls, and Daryl shivers from excitement even as he digs his claws into the wall and shoves back, trying to find a way to get himself free. He knows he’s lost, though, knows Rick has claimed this victory, and he’s already panting before his shirt is yanked over his head, cool air tickling his exposed spine. He groans, rolling up onto the balls of his feet and arching his spine to tilt his hips invitingly.

 _Then do somethin’ about it,_ he goads, hissing out a whine through his clenched teeth when Rick bites at his shoulder and he feels those formidable fangs draw twin lines that bead with tiny flecks of blood. The man rumbles victoriously and licks them up even as the scratches heal, rubbing his nose against the side of Daryl’s neck and panting hotly just behind his ear. The archer shivers, palms flat against the wall now as his feet shift a little wider apart. Hands drop to curl in the waistband of his jeans, claws pressing little points of eager fire into his hips, and his head falls back when Rick yanks them down enough to expose his ass and the thickest parts of his thighs, effectively trapping him until he can find a way to free up his legs. He doesn’t bother fighting back, just rocks his hips back and feels the harsh scrape of denim against his ass, and he can _feel_ his hole twitch and clench in response, loose enough and eager to be spread wide around the girth of his lover’s cock once more. For once there’s no cum and lube to make things even easier, but Daryl likes that this time—it makes their game a little more realistic.

“Fuckin’ _look at you_ ,” the fledgling rumbles, palms hot against his ass and spreading his cheeks to get a better look at his hole. The darkness means nothing to them—their eyesight is far too enhanced. He knows Rick can see every twitch and quiver, and when a finger presses against the tight furl, Daryl bites into his own wrist to try and muffle the noise that wants to pour out of him. The tip of a claw very carefully scrapes his rim before pressing a little deeper, and he keens as he feels it turn blunt and harmless _inside of him_ , Rick’s wildness tempered a little now that he’s chased his prey and caught Daryl; has the archer pinned and eager and filling his mouth with his own blood and saliva, a trail leaking from the corner and dripping from his chin as his sulfur-yellow eyes roll back and his legs tremble.

 _Rick_ , he moans, and even his mind-voice sounds wrecked and desperate already. A hand strokes at his hip, soothing him, and he presses his forearms against cold concrete to lengthen his spine and make access easier, his boots scrabbling roughly at the ground as he tries to kick his way out of them and get his pants down. He’s effectively hobbled, Rick’s body strong and unyielding behind him, and the dry finger presses a little deeper and rubs at the inside of his rim in a way that makes Daryl choke on the blood and spit trickling down his throat, his entire body jolting like he’s been struck by lightning.

“I think you need to be a little wetter, darlin’, don’t you?” Rick croons, and Daryl’s trying to gather himself enough to figure out how to put his thoughts into words when he feels the air shift behind him and hears the thud of Rick’s knees hitting the ground. He tries to look back, dropping his head lower and slitting his eyes open, but then there’s a hot tongue flicking against his hole, leaving trails of saliva that _burn_ , and he latches onto his own wrist and sucks weakly as the wet, writhing muscle laps and curls and _pushes_ until his spasming hole opens enough for it to slip inside.

This isn’t the first time Rick has done this, but there’s a reason Daryl tries to keep it from happening, and that is that it feels so goddamn good that he _cannot take it_. He’s already sobbing and shoving back against the insistent tongue, rocking his hips and fucking himself as best he can as pleasure sparks and his stomach clenches. His cock is wet and dripping, his nerves so oversensitive that tears are leaking from his clenched eyes, and he digs his fangs into his own wrist until he feels the bone start to crack, the pain easing the overwhelming pleasure. As soon as he lets go, though, mouth painted red and eyes staring at the wall unseeing, Rick slips a finger in beside his tongue and Daryl’s knees give out.

Rick catches him easily, lowering him until his cheek is pressed against cold, unfeeling concrete and his hands are limp on either side of his head, his hips still raised high and spit dripping from his balls when Rick pulls his cheeks apart and dives back in. He moans and sobs and begs wordlessly, pushing with his knees and shins to arch his spine and lift his hips higher, and Rick _growls against his rim_ , pleased and loving, and Daryl’s cock jerks as another thin string of pre-cum drips down to the floor.

“Think you’re ready?” the man finally asks, hot breath against Daryl’s loosened hole and tongue still lapping, still prodding and playing. He whimpers and nods, loose fists uncurling as he tries to lift himself up, and he moans when broad palms cup against his belly and chest and pull him up. He’s turned around, his legs parting around Rick’s thighs and his knees digging into the floor as he adjusts himself, and he grabs for Rick’s curls and brings their mouths together as he sinks down onto his lover’s cock and uses the kiss to muffle his grateful sobs as the thick, blunt head presses into him and the rest of Rick’s cock slides home. He’s stretched and filled, hands bracing his hips that he fights against, because he just wants to slam down until he’s _screaming_ , wants to drag his claws down Rick’s back until his fingers are stained with blood. He wants to bite and suck and feed from his lover while Rick feeds from him, their bodies writhing across the filthy floor and their passion hidden away down here, shrouded and secret and only theirs.

 _Fuck me_ , he orders, his voice scraped raw, and Rick shifts himself so that he’s at a better angle, leaning back against the wall and using it as his entire body rolls, his hips drawing away, his cock _leaving_ , before he snaps up, quick and effortless like Daryl’s crossbow string, and the archer bites down on Rick’s lips hard enough to taste his blood when that spot is hit perfectly and his body convulses in response, the pleasure whiting out his vision and wiping away any stubbornly remaining scraps of control.

This is how they are meant to be, wild and passionate as they rock together; fangs finding sweat-slick skin and tongues tasting the roar of life running beneath the surface. Rick makes his home inside of Daryl, cock touching deeper than anyone ever has before as his fangs sink into the archer’s flesh where neck meets shoulder, cutting into muscle like butter and making Daryl groan as his claws carve new paths down Rick’s back, leaving marks on either side of his spine that are already healing over by the time he draws them anew. His mouth falls open against Rick’s shoulder, hot pants against burning, sweaty skin, and he feels like a kitten searching for milk as he licks and nuzzles and finally slides his fangs home. The rich blood fills his mouth and overflows, dripping in trails down Rick’s chest and stomach to mat in his pubic curls and smear where they’re joined.

The pull of Rick drinking from him is matched by the wet suck of his own mouth around Rick’s shoulder, jaws open wide and tongue laving weakly to try and lick up what he’s missing as his shoulders tense, his spine arches, and he comes after one last grind of his cock against his lover’s abdomen, blood and cum mixing down the length of his cock and leaving him shuddering helplessly through the aftershocks. He recovers in time to feel Rick go still against him, his lover’s breath snorting from his nose as he bites down harder, and then the man shudders and his hips buck helplessly, his rhythm in pieces as he rides out his own orgasm. Daryl swears he can feel every pulse of cum as he frees his mouth from his lover’s flesh and throws his head back, enjoying every pulse and jerk as Rick’s claws dig into his sides again and blood runs over the man’s fingers.

They’re an absolute mess, but they usually are after sex, and Daryl’s used to it. It feels good when Rick starts to lick him clean, tongue cutting lazy patterns through the blood and sweat and cum, and he licks at his lover’s shoulder, feeling the torn edges of the punctures knitting together. It’s a strange sensation, but one he enjoys feeling, because it means that Rick is still here with him, still breathing and moving and loving him.

“I don’t know what I did to get so lucky,” the man murmurs against his throat, echoing his thoughts aloud the way only he’s ever been able to. Daryl closes his eyes and basks in the warmth, hands wet and red as he rubs down Rick’s unmarked back and brings his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean. “I love you so much, darlin’.”

 _Yeah_ , he whispers, shying away slightly but not leaving completely. It still amazes him, that someone like Rick could ever love a nobody like Daryl—a monster from legend who has made him one in kind, their metaphorical beasts made physical in the flash of their eyes and the shine of their fangs. _I love ya, too._

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Rick cups the side of his face, the fight and anger bleeding out of him now and leaving him as gentle as ever. His eyes blink back to blue, loving and warm and filling Daryl’s vision, filling his _world_ , and he nuzzles into his lover’s palm and kisses the base of his thumb.

_Feel ready ta go back?_

After a moment, Rick take a deep, steadying breath and nods. “Yeah, I’m ready to go outside, at least.”

It’s better than nothing, so Daryl kisses Rick’s calloused palm one more time and pulls away. There’s a moment of loss as he feels his lover’s cock slip out of him—a shudder and fading pang of desire as cum drips out of him. They dress quickly, though, and Rick takes the lead as they navigate their way out of the depths of the tombs and back out into the brilliant sunlight and the overwhelming heat. A few people working nearby pause and look at them, smiling nervously and nodding as they eye Rick. He smiles back at them, looking sheepish and properly chastised, and the last of their wariness fades as Daryl watches them open up like flowers in sunlight.

The outdoor eating area is empty, and the archer doesn’t find himself even a little surprised when Rick sits them down side by side and runs his fingers through Daryl’s hair, coaxing him to offer his throat so he can go back to grooming him now that they’re not hidden away. It’s as much affection as it is an act of warning, even though no one from Woodbury has yet managed to so much as look him in the eye yet, much less try to flirt with him.

It feels good, though, that connection and love Daryl has always craved, and he glances around to make sure they won’t be disturbed before pulling off his shirt and laying across the sun-heated wood in offering; his arms stretched out and his hands draped over the opposite side of the table. Rick rumbles in contentment and begins to lick the last traces of sweat and blood from him, his tongue tickling at the sensitive skin under Daryl’s arms and making him squirm. A heavy hand presses against his spine, stilling him, and he sighs happily until he hears Carol’s voice and his muscles tense subtly.

“Oh, Rick, here you are. I was wondering if you could help…”

She trails off and they both look over at her, Rick’s tongue still dragging slowly across Daryl’s ribs until he squirms away and sits up. He knows he must be blushing, because it’s a little weird to see a guy licking another guy the way Rick has been grooming him. That, and his scars are currently visible, so he quickly turns and puts his back to his lover’s chest, sinking against his warmth and smiling when the man’s strong arms wrap around his waist.

“What do you need, Carol?” Rick asks like nothing is at all amiss or awkward. His calming presence goes a long way toward relaxing Daryl, their thoughts twining and putting him completely at ease as he looks at their friend. He doesn’t have anything to worry about from Carol, and he knows that, but it could have been someone from Woodbury, and that’s a whole other mess. As it is, Carol looks a little bit surprised, like this was the last way she’d been expecting to find them. To her credit, she recovers quickly and smiles.

“I was thinking we should start planting, soon,” she says. Daryl perks up a little, an idea niggling at the corners of his mind. He tries to focus on it, tries to help shape it into what it wants to be, and in the meantime looks between Rick and Carol as his lover hums thoughtfully.

“What would we plant?” he asks.

Carol starts listing vegetables, ticking them off on her fingers. “There’s carrots, peas, lettuce; anything and everything we want to grow, Rick. We’ve got the space to do it, and Hershel knows more than enough to help us get things started.”

“Who would take care of it, though?” Rick tilts his head, and the seedling idea in Daryl’s brain grows into a tangible thought at that. He sits up a little, making Rick’s arms tighten briefly against his sides to support him. “Daryl?”

_Why don’t you?_

“Why don’t I what?”

His lover’s voice is light and curious, but the archer isn’t fooled. He knows that Rick has already figured out exactly what Daryl means, and he can tell from the way those blue eyes get a little darker that he’s already trying to come up with reasons why he shouldn’t.

Daryl turns to face Rick, ignoring the fact that his naked back is now exposed to Carol. After what she went through with her husband, she’s the last person who will judge his scars. Aside from a quick, pained inhale when she sees them, she says nothing. He can smell the tinge of her sorrow, but he knows she will never pity him. She has no need to.

 _The way things are ain’t workin’, Rick, and you know it,_ he starts quietly. _Can’t have today happenin’ every time ya feel like someone is challengin’ ya._ When the man opens his mouth, his eyes narrowing slightly, Daryl presses a palm against his broad chest and feels how his lover relaxes under his touch. _Rick, ya know control takes time. We ain’t got time like that, not right now. We got too many people, too many personalities, and not enough breathin’ time._

“You want me to become a farmer,” Rick growls, voice flat and eyes dark.

 _I want ya ta not kill anyone just ‘cause they don’t agree with ya,_ Daryl fires back, and that brings Rick up short. His mouth falls open, a puff of air hissing out, and his brow furrows when he looks from Daryl to Carol. Glancing back over his shoulder, the archer sees his friend’s face, how she’s smiling gently through the worry tightening the corners of her eyes. None of them are terrified of Rick, not like a few of the Woodbury folk, but they’ve seen him nearly explode multiple times in a few short weeks, have seen Daryl come back from calming him down with blood still present on his skin, even if the two of them were content, and he knows they worry that he won’t be able to soothe Rick for much longer.

They watch as Rick thinks back over the last three weeks. Daryl senses the way his mind is flipping through every interaction, categorizing everything, and the realization dawns slow but has a heavy impact when he finally looks at them again, his blue eyes clear and tortured.

“I have been a bit volatile, haven’t I?” he murmurs, and they both hear Carol’s tiny exhalation of relief. That, more than anything, seems to cement his lover’s decision, and Rick stands slowly while Daryl pulls his shirt back on, the two of them in desperate need of a shower but more than willing to wait for the moment. “Alright,” the man sighs, and Daryl leans against him gratefully, pressing his lips to Rick’s shoulders and nuzzling their thoughts together. A hand strokes through his hair, pushing his bangs back, and Rick gives him a quick smile before looking at Carol again.

“Let’s go find Hershel. It looks like he and I need to have a talk.”

 

 

 

Watching Rick till the land, his brow furrowed in concentration and his shirt already plastered to his back from sweat, Daryl bites at his lower lip. He fidgets a little on the bench he’s sitting on, ignoring Sasha’s amusement as the woman splits her attention between cleaning her gun and watching him. She’s a nice woman, and her brother Tyreese is clearly too gentle for the life they’re all forced to live, but at least the children seem to adore him. His sister is one of the best snipers Daryl has probably ever seen, which can only benefit them.

“You’re so gone on him, Daryl Dixon,” Sasha finally chuckles, and he huffs quietly at her, rolls his eyes, and sticks his thumb in his mouth to chew at his cuticle as Rick works his way down the rows he and Hershel have already marked out, ripping up the Georgia soil in large clumps and spraying himself with dirt as he does so. Hershel is instructing him, teaching him how deep to dig and what they can plant where, and when, for optimum growth time and harvest. It’s good to see Rick so focused on something, and he already looks more relaxed than he has since he and Daryl came back from the woods after his turn. The oddest thing about it is seeing his lover without his gun at his hip, but it would only get in the way.

As Rick works and Daryl admires him from a distance, Tyreese brings the kids out to play on the other side of the field so that they don’t disturb Rick and Hershel. A few of them are from Woodbury, one or two still a little wary and confused about this new place they’re living in, but the rest have already come out of their shells. He’s pretty sure he has Sophia and Carl to thank for that. Mostly Sophia, who is just too sweet and gentle-natured for anyone to dislike.

Shrieks and laughter fill the air, and Rick pauses to lean against his hoe and watch the kids play for a moment. Hershel watches as well, taking a drink before passing the water to Rick. He doesn’t need it, he never will again, but Daryl sees him take it with a nod of thanks anyway, sees him tip his head back and drink, and he smiles before an excited exclamation that might have been his name has him turning away again.

Sophia comes bounding up to him, golden hair flying behind her, and he opens his arms just in time for her to launch herself against his chest, warm and alive and squirming happily. She’s acting like she hasn’t seen him in days, when she just saw him early that morning, after Hershel stuck his head into the cell he and Rick shared and bade Rick to follow him so they could get started preparing the ground. She’d been bouncing Judith and making their baby girl squeal and laugh, and Daryl had given the infant a quick kiss on the head, had given Sophia a brief hug, and then he’d been out the door.

 _Hey, you_ , he thinks, even though no one but Rick is able to hear him. It still feels wrong to not acknowledge her in some way, even if she’ll never be able to hear his voice. He gives her a gentle squeeze, and she giggles as she sits back.

“Hi Sasha!”

“Hey, kiddo,” the woman chuckles, laying her scope down for the moment and folding her arms against the table. “Anyone figure out how to talk to this guy yet? Silence is nice sometimes, but man, I’m ready to hear him sass back.”

Sophia grins and shrugs one shoulder while Daryl rolls his eyes and glares at Sasha. She smirks back, nothing but playfulness in her body language and her face, so he’s not offended. Once upon a time, he would have been, but that time was long ago, and too much has happened since then.

“Rick’s the only one who can hear him,” Carol’s daughter says, nodding wisely and tapping at her temple. “I think it’s magic.”

“Magic, huh.” Sasha shakes her head and looks at Daryl. He shrugs slightly and turns his face up toward the sun. Everyone knows now that he and Rick aren’t human anymore—there was no way to hide it, after all. At least Hershel has come around, just as calm and at-ease around them as he used to be. He’d been more than willing to teach Rick how to farm, since he couldn’t do it himself any longer. Sophia still adores them both, and Carl is fiercely protective of his father, still. If the children want to call Rick and Daryl’s ability to communicate telepathically magic, then let them.

“Sophia!” A young girl with a narrow face and long blonde hair pulled into a braid is grinning and bouncing on the balls of her feet, waving her friend back over. Sophia giggles and gives Daryl one last hug before jumping off of his laugh. She doesn’t hear his grunt as her weight presses at sensitive spots, too focused on running back to join the others, and Daryl turns to swing his legs over the bench and face Sasha as she picks up her scope and goes back to cleaning the lense.

“So,” she starts, and he goes carefully still as he looks at her, his eyebrows going up as he waits. She laughs softly and rolls her eyes, pointing her rag at him. “Oh, stop it. You act like I’m going to bite your head off.”

Leaning against the table the way she’d been doing just a moment before, Daryl hunches his shoulder in a shrug and eyes her warily, wondering what she needs to say. Her expression has slipped, guilt replacing the earlier teasing, and for a moment she pretends she’s too busy wiping away a particularly stubborn but non-existent smudge before she finally looks up at him with dark, sad eyes.

“Not all of us were in on it, you know,” she murmurs, and his muscles stiffen as he turns his head to give her his full attention. She winces at the intensity of his stare, and he narrows his eyes slightly as he watches her try not to squirm. He feels no remorse for making her so uncomfortable, because he already knows what she’s hinting at, and he remembers how that entire situation played out. Even if she wasn’t a full participant, she didn’t try to stop it, and so he has no pity for her.

Sasha must recognize that, because she lifts her chin and accepts his quiet anger with dignity, a quick lick at her lips the only hint of her discomfort. “We never would have let it keep going on, if we’d known,” she says quietly, and Daryl digs his claws meaningfully into the table, peeling slivers of wood back like butter. “We never went to the fights.” Her cat-like eyes darken even further, flicking past him, and he knows she’s talking about her brother as well. He already knew that Tyreese had nothing to do with that type of violence, and he knows Sasha isn’t that kind of person either, but that doesn’t forgive the fact that they knew and they did _nothing_ to stop it. Digging deeper into the wood, he rips up a chunk and crushes it into nothing but fragments, seeing her slight flinch and knowing that his meaning has been made clear and understood. Letting the pieces fall from between his fingers, he begins to pick out the few shards that have pierced his flesh while she watches.

A hand drops onto his shoulder, and he glances up to see Michonne, her dreadlocks almost hiding the disapproval she’s fixing him with. He huffs and shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at her, and her fingers dig a little more firmly into his shoulder.

“No point in wasting time on dead men, Daryl,” she says, her low voice even and calm. She has just as much right to be as angry as he still is, just as much right to want her point made clearly, but instead she chooses to reprimand him rather than blame the Woodbury folks. They don’t know about her, probably, but all of them who sat in the bleachers that night know about Daryl. They look at him and he sees their shame, but none have been brave enough to try to apologize yet.

Michonne is unwavering, calm and relaxed and far more forgiving than any Dixon has managed to be, and in the end he relents with a sigh and ducks his head before rising. She gives him one last squeeze, her hand warm and her comfort soothing his temper, and then she slips away as quickly as she’d come, sharing a look with Sasha before heading down the driveway to take over for Maggie, who is currently on guard duty up in the tower.

When Sasha turns back to her gun, he catches her eyes and holds them, trying to convey with his expression what he no longer can with words. It takes her a moment, her brow creasing in confusion as her eyes dart over his face, and then comprehension dawns and she smiles. She reaches out, and he slaps his hand against hers, holding firmly and accepting the touch for what it is—a fresh start.

“I don’t blame you,” she admits, letting go and picking up a piece of her disassembled weapon to check it for damage before she starts to clean it. “I would be angry, too. I _am_ angry, because I know I should have tried to stop it. Ty and I both; we should have done more.”

Daryl accepts her words for what they are, recognizes the truth in them, and gives her one last nod before turning away and following the path Michonne has taken. His destination is different, although he stops to bump his shoulder with Maggie’s when she comes striding up the driveway toward him, her rifle slung over her shoulder and her movements loose from exhaustion. She gives him a tired smile, her hand slapping at his side. She has no words for him right now, none that are in desperate need of being said when he can easily read her care on her young face and in the sway of her body as she moves in for a one-armed hug.

After they pull apart, he nudges her toward the courtyard, letting her be on her way, and she doesn’t linger any longer than she has to. One last sweet smile and she’s gone, heading toward the Block and her bed, where Glenn will probably be waiting to stroke her hair until she’s asleep before returning to his own duties. Daryl has to smile at the obvious love between the two of them—at how quickly it grew from infatuation to something even couples married twenty years can’t always find.

The end of the world is a dangerous place, but it seems to be when the strongest love is found.

Rick is watching him when Daryl turns toward his lover, those blue eyes warm and calling to him closer. The archer doesn’t try to fight; letting himself move closer to the one he loves with the same ferocity Glenn and Maggie love one another. Hershel looks up and smiles at his approach, looking impressed at the neat rows Rick has already dug into the ground. Daryl knows why the older man has that look on his face, because Rick has taken work that would have otherwise kept him busy for a few days and scored them into the earth in a single afternoon. Each row is long and neat, the deep gouges waiting for the seeds that will be tipped into them and covered by the soil waiting alongside what his lover has cleared.

“I’m impressed,” Hershel says aloud once Daryl is pressed against Rick’s sweaty side. He accepts the canteen of water even though it’s unnecessary, drinking a few sips before giving it back to the older man. “You’ve already done a lot of work, Rick. We may even be able to get a few things planted in time before the season changes too much.”

“Good to know,” Rick chuckles, one of his arms sliding easily around Daryl’s shoulders. He leans into the comfort, feeling no sense of wariness or unease at Hershel seeing him so comfortable in his lover’s arms. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have accepted such an action even if it was just in friendship, but those days are dead and gone, scattered uselessly on the winds and never to cause him distress again.

Something rustles in the woods, and Daryl’s muscles tense a heartbeat before alarms start blaring in his head. He smells cloves and sweat and a cologne he’s not familiar with, and his senses scream _predator_ as the lower hanging branches are pulled apart by a pair of clean, large hands and a man steps out of the security of the forest and into the light. He looks right at Daryl and smiles, his teeth gleaming and his eyes flashing bronze.

“Hello there, pretty thing,” he purrs, and his voice makes Daryl snaps to attention, memories he’d almost forgotten again surging to the forefront of his mind. Beside him, Rick snarls and tightens his grip on the hoe until the wood starts to splinter, and then it breaks completely when several more bodies slip out of the forest and range around the man who still isn’t looking away or blinking, his eyes glittering and his canines lengthening around his friendly grin.

Gunmetal-gray hair, still somewhat wavy and combed exactly as it had been then. A neat beard and mustache. There are a few more lines on his face, life hasn’t been kind to him in the last decade, but that quiet power still radiates from him now the way it did then, and a cold shiver runs down Daryl’s spine as he bares his own fangs and clenches his fists.

“Now, now,” the older man chuckles, tilting his head and looking for all the world like he’s amused by what is essentially, to him, a kitten hissing at a lion. “Is that any way to treat your sire? I know we only had a short time together, sweetheart, but I never forgot _you_.”

“So this is him, Joe?” one of the guys says, looking at Daryl and curling his lip as he lifts his bow and draws the arrow already notched. “Don’t look like much, to me.”

“Oh, he’s more than you will ever know, Len,” Joe purrs as he prowls closer. He ignores Rick, whose eyes are swirling amber and bronze as he drops his ruined tool and steps closer to the inside fence, moving to place himself between Daryl and the man who has not once looked away from him.

“Good to see you again, fledgling,” Joe croons, and Daryl hisses weakly as some part of his instincts respond to that voice, that scent—his _maker_. The man who turned him. He lifts his chin, jaw tight, and sneers, but Joe’s smile just gets wider as he puts a hand against the fence and his eyes glow.

“I’ve missed you, pretty thing. Why don’t you come say hello? After all, I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MONTH LATER, BUT HEY, THE CHAPTER IS FINALLY FUCKING DONE. WOO.
> 
> Jeeesus. Sorry, guys. DX But hey, here it is! WOO!
> 
> *flails*
> 
> God I'm so tired. Oooooh my gawd.
> 
> TWO MORE CHAPTERS AND WE'RE FINISHED. WAT IS LIFE EVEN.
> 
> ENJOY~

"Oh, come on now, Daryl. I don't even get a hello?"

Rick snarls and steps forward, his fangs heavy against the dip of his chin and his eyes itching with the familiar burn as swirling bronze and amber overtake everything. Joe meets his gaze with patronizing amusement, and to be dismissed out of hand so quickly causes his waking beast to rumble in discontent as the lust for violence and blood makes his muscles twitch and his fingers curl.

"What's your business with us?" he asks harshly as he puts himself between Daryl and the other creature. Joe is ancient compared to them, his violence neatly contained behind a mocking smile. In comparison, Rick is no more than a rabid mongrel, and Daryl is his own cultivated brand of feral. He's still silent, worryingly so, and Rick glances back at the archer to see what's happening with him.

His lover is as tense as his bowstring, his sulfur-yellow eyes narrowed and dim as he looks past Rick to Joe and his men. Every single one of them is like him, their humanity shed for something better, something stronger, but again, unlike Rick, they are controlled and collected. They smirk at his posturing, amused by what is essentially, to them, nothing but a child's tantrum.

"Come on, Daryl," Joe croons; his eyes seem to glow brighter as his voice dips into something low and compelling. "Come say hello. I've got some boys who have been dying to meet you."

The one he'd called Len hisses softly at that, his face twisting into something ugly for a moment behind the shelter of his greasy, stringy bangs. Rick eyes him, wondering if he's the newest to be turned, but then Daryl shifts behind him and his attention swings back to his hunter.

Daryl is moving forward slowly, his steps halting and reluctant. His muscles are twitching like he's fighting himself, his pleading yellow eyes darting to Rick's face even as he takes another jerky step forward, and then another. His throat is working frantically, his breath coming out in quick gasps. When Rick nudges against his mind, he feels something that reminds the man of a heavy cloak, only this is made of something _wrong_ that makes the hairs on his nape rise and tears a snarl from his throat.

This is a Thrall, and he's not sure _how_ he knows that, but he _does_. Joe has his lover, his _mate_ , caught in some kind of manipulation he can't break free of, and Daryl's fear is faint through the thick smog stealing away his free will, but Rick can still feel it. The archer is terrified, fighting to reach out to Rick, begging for him to _do_ _something_ , and Rick's frustrated roar is loud enough to reach their family and disturb the walkers on the other side of the prison.

Joe laughs at him, prematurely triumphant and brimming with arrogance. "Oh, isn't this precious," he chuckles cruelly. "Looks like you two tried to bond, didn't you. Well, I'd say that would be a problem, but... it won't be. Lou, if you would be so kind?"

One of the men steps forward and raises his gun. Rick snarls, too enraged to speak, and before the rifle even fires he's spinning out of the way and slamming into Daryl's side. They go down hard, his lover hissing and clawing at his forearms even as frustrated tears well up in his beautiful yellow eyes. His body bucks and writhes, struggling to be free, and his mind is fighting to break the oppression of the Thrall with everything he has.

"That's my good boy," Rick purrs, his words low and fierce. "That's my gorgeous mate. You keep fightin', darlin'. Don't you fuckin' stop."

The crack of the gun sounds again, and Rick roars when a line of agonizing fire carves across his shoulder blades. It's a fast sizzle of pain followed by the soothing relief of his skin knitting back together quickly, and he refuses to take his eyes off the man beneath him. Daryl has stopped struggling, wide-eyed and whining quietly in the back of his throat. His claws go from rending Rick's flesh to pressing uncertainly against his forearms; kneading like a kitten seeking comfort and being careful not to pierce deep enough to draw blood.

"There you are," Rick croons softly. He can feel the slick, oily wrongness of the Thrall leeching away. It's not gone completely, but more of Daryl is wiggling through the thinner spots and rushing to wrap around Rick and latch onto his support and strength. He gives it gladly, rumbling soothingly until he hears the telltale click of the rifle being engaged. "Hold on, sweetheart," he whispers, and that's the only warning he gives before rolling them.

Buckshot hits the ground where they'd just been, exploding in a shower of dirt and pellets. Rick snarls and crouches over his lover's trembling body like a wolf guarding his mate, fangs bared and eyes wild as he lifts his head high and meets Joe's darkened eyes without hesitation.

"You will not have him," he hisses.

"See, now, that's just not true," the older creature replies cheerfully. "I'm the one who made him. He's mine until I die."

 _I don't fuckin' b'long ta you, prick,_ Daryl spits weakly. Fighting the Thrall is draining him, costing too much with too little gain. Rick ducks his head lower, bringing their faces closer and taking his eyes from Joe and his gang for a split second to check his lover.

Before he can say anything, before Daryl can warn him or Beth can scream from the driveway, he hears the foreboding clanging of the chain-link fences. He doesn't get the chance to get himself or Daryl out of the way before a hand is closing around his throat and he's being hurled across the field.

Rick hisses from the bite of gravel ripping into his back and the sides of his arms when he hits the driveway and rolls. He hears Beth trying to get out of his way, her voice raised in distress when she sees the bloom of red across his skin. She knows better than to try to interfere though, and he’s grateful for that.

Wasting no time, he flips over; digs the toes of his boots into the loose gravel and kicks off powerfully with a bellow. His eyes are blazing, his teeth gleaming wickedly and his fingers bent to accommodate his claws. He feels the bunch and pull of his muscles and ignores the furrows he leaves in the grass behind him - the frantic sway of broken and bent stalks as they shiver from the force of his passage.

 _Mine!_ his instincts roar, and it's a howl he echoes with a sound that's loud enough to disrupt the rotting undead and catch Joe's attention from where the man is crouched beside Daryl when it rips free from his vocal chords like a declaration of war. Rick's lover looks caught between rage and dull compliancy, the Thrall trying to thicken around his mind again when Rick nudges him to check.

"You're tenacious, I'll give you that," Joe growls. His gunmetal-gray hair is a disheveled mess, his glittering eyes narrowed and his face streaked with dirt. He's only a little bit shorter than Rick, maybe a little bit broader, and he carries himself with the confidence of someone who has had more than enough time to learn every nuance of his body.

"You haven't even seen my tenacity," Rick snarls as he slams his shoulder against the other man's chest and throws him back several yards. Joe goes down hard, hissing in pain when he lands wrong. His group of restless followers shout and spit insults, their weapons raised with intent. Len in particular is dancing from foot to foot, his pale yellow eyes burning with ferocity. He's not looking at Joe though, and that gives Rick a moment of pause. His lips curl back, another powerful snarl building in his chest and spilling free when the older fledgling sneers and draws back the string of his bow as he raises it.

He’s aiming at Daryl.

Rick's scaling the fence before Joe can get a hand on him; bracing his arches against the top rung and ignoring the barbed wire ripping his bared skin open as he launches himself over the side.

Len doesn't react quickly enough, is too focused on Daryl where he's writhing across the ground like he's having a seizure. Rick slams into him and bites down on the closest thing to his mouth. The man screams in agony, hot blood spilling across Rick's tongue and making him bite harder as it runs down his chin and drips from his beard. His teeth scrape against bone, his claws ripping through Len's shirts like they're paper and carving into his vulnerable belly.

The butt of a rifle slams into his temple, agony searing through his skull from the brutal blow, but Rick just locks his jaw and wrenches his head from side to side. Muscle and tissue tears easily beneath the force of his bite and the jagged edges of his canines.

People are shouting and screaming around him, weapons and fists alike raining down on him but only making him more determined to rip Len apart for daring to raise a weapon to his mate. He'll make him regret every nanosecond. He'll flay flesh from splintered bone and soak the ground in red until it cannot take any more.

Daryl is screaming, fighting with everything he has, and Rick rumbles triumphantly when he feels his archer's willpower burn through the Thrall and burst out the other side of it, the archer rising with a vengeful roar and lunging toward the fences.

Cold metal presses to the side of Rick's skull, the click of the safety being disengaged making him hiss through his mouthful of Len's flesh. The other fledgling is spitting and whining in pain, his fury and his agony combining to make him sound like a feral, wounded beast.

"You're gonna let him go, and you're gonna back away slowly," Joe tells him. Rick's marbled eyes slant toward him, his jaw working and drawing a choked off cry from his prey's throat. He has no interest in rolling over and playing nice, no interest at all in letting these savages take _anything_ unless they take it from his lifeless hands.

 _I'm with ya, alpha,_ Daryl snarls as he stalks stiffly toward the fence. His eyes are glowing, his beautiful features twisted into something resembling more beast than man. _Let 'im go, Rick. You take care'a Joe. That'un's **mine**._

With Daryl's vow filling his mind like the rumbling of a gathering hurricane, Rick digs his claws cruelly into Len's shoulder and rips his fangs from the other man's flesh with no consideration for how much damage he inflicts. He forces the fledgling to his knees and plants his boot hard against the man's chest to hold him there.

"You will not live to see this day end," he rumbles. His voice echoes like thunder, the words cracking like lightning and leaving just as much of an impression. He tilts his head into the barrel of the gun, narrowed eyes fixing on Joe unblinkingly until the weapon drops away.

"Mighty big words for a newborn sucker," the older man says. He looked impressed and intrigued, like he's getting more than he expected when he'd first laid eyes on Rick and sensed the riotous tumble of his untamed instincts. Rick says nothing back, just steps away and circles the older man until they're prowling like hunting tigers, every rotation taking them farther and farther from the others.

"Daryl was my first, y'know," Joe chuckles. Rick bares his canines, feeling Len's blood dripping from his lips and watching the way the other man's eyes narrow when they drop to watch the trails of red making sluggish lines down Rick's chin and throat. His beard is saturated and matted, his mouth full of the rich taste of copper and life, and he wants _more_. He wants to rip into Joe and drain every drop - suck the marrow from his bones and crack them like a wolf searching for a meal. He wants to _slaughter_ this man and his pack of fledgling followers and leave their bloated, rotting corpses as warnings to any who might think it's their right to try and take what belongs to Rick and his family.

The humor bleeds from Joe's expression, the deep lines carved by age sinking deeper as his smile slides into a frown. His eyes glitter with the same lust for violence keeping Rick light on the balls of his feet, the two of them circling like starving lions; nothing but liquid grace and sinuous muscles, their claws hooked and their fingers bent in preparation of sinking in and tearing.

"He would have been mine completely," the older man goes on angrily. "Just _look_ at him. So much potential, so much violence. And what does he do with it? Lets it waste away while he writhes beneath a _fledgling_."

"You sound jealous," Rick sneers. He will not play this game, no matter how badly Joe might want to. "Daryl has only ever belonged to himself, no matter what anyone might claim otherwise. He is not a trophy in a game. He is his own man."

"He is my first child. You wouldn't understand, nor will you." Joe is pacing, riling himself up further while Rick lopes around him calmly and watches with the patience of a hunter waiting for his chance.

“Is that so,” he rumbles. “You’re probably right, but that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to go with you.”

“Is that right?” The older man circles Rick, his gait stiff and his fists clenched so tightly that red drips from his palms. The fledgling spares barely a glance for it, far more focused on the predator watching him and looking for any hint of weakness. This is already an uneven match, because Joe has decades more experience than Rick – a seasoned killer compared to his newborn rabidity. What he lacks in knowledge, he hopes he can make up for in strength. Daryl is older than him, after all, and while his lover might be faster, Rick is definitely the physically stronger of them. Up against Joe though, he won’t know until they actually come together and trade blows to test the waters.

 _Why wait_? he thinks; a snarl building low in his chest and roaring from his raw throat with the force of thunder – a wordless bellow that seems to shake the ground beneath their feet and rattles the fences. The walkers are working themselves into a frenzy, drawn from all over the forest by the sounds of the fighting. Joe’s men are dealing with the swelling herds, keeping the battleground clear of distractions.

Marbled amber-bronze eyes sweeping across Joe and the surrounding area, Rick hisses and edges closer to keep the man circling farther from the perimeter of the fences. He knows his family is gathering, waiting for the order with tense, bated breaths, but this is one command he _will_ _not_ give. He will not risk them, not in this, so with another roar, he breaks from their little game of ring-around and lunges across the distance.

Joe meets him easily, claws raking across Rick’s shoulders and leaving blazing trails of pain that well with blood and run in rivulets down his back. He feels the tip of one hook against the joint of his shoulder and spins free with a furious snarl. Ducking low, he tucks his shoulder and slams against the older creature’s chest hard enough to knock him down and send him tumbling over the low bank of the stream Rick has been carefully herding him toward. He spits out a surprised curse when he goes down, the splash of him hitting the water nowhere near as satisfying as the solid crack of his skull against one of the larger stones.

Crouching on the bank, Rick digs the toes of his boots into the soft earth and growls as he watches the billow of red across the filthy water. His growl turns pleased, and he uses his opponent’s moment of stunned disorientation to slip into the water himself and haul Joe up by his throat. He throws him up the opposite bank, following and slamming his spine against the closest tree – pressing harder and harder until he hears the snap of vertebrae and ribs.

“Gonna make you regret ever comin’ here,” he vows, low and dangerous while the beast gnashes its jaws and drools flickers of shadowy saliva. They meld in a way they never have before, beast and man setting aside their differences for the moment and joining into one perfect cohesion of destructive instinct and murderous intent.

“Gonna make you regret ever claimin’ what wasn’t yours to have,” Joe hisses back. Blood is bubbling from his lips, his voice raspy and his breathing labored. Rick would bet a meal or three that he’s punctured the man’s lungs with a few of the broken ribs, and the new swell of satisfaction at the thought should be more worrying than it is. He only gets to enjoy it for a moment, because Joe’s claws rip into his sides and the pain drives him back. He lets go and dances out of reach, light on his feet and ready for the next strike. His skin knits back together, same as Joe’s, and they eye one another contemplatively.

This isn’t some rough school brawl, or even a drunken fight with a man resisting arrest. Here, in this devastated world overrun with the walking dead, they are two elite predators. Every blow is precise and intent, _kill_ the only thing on their minds. It is infinitely more dangerous than any other fight Rick has ever had – including the one that led to him being this way.

“Mighty nice place you’ve got here, bud,” Joe comments once his breathing steadies out and the blood starts to grow tacky on his lips. Rick paces like a restless wolf, snapping his teeth and wanting the bullshit and speeches to be _over_. “Would be a shame if something happened to it. Or them people you got up there. Pretty little daughter, y’know. World’s too shitty for such a little thing to survive long.”

“ _You won’t touch her_ ,” Rick snarls, and then they’re lunging for each other again. Joe wrestles him to the ground this time, the two of them grappling and snarling as they claw at one another and throw punches – sink their fangs into whatever piece of flesh they can find and gouge deep, bloody wounds that heal over almost as soon as they’re made. Rick’s muscles are burning, his adrenaline leeching away the pain until he can’t even focus on it anymore. All of his attention is fixated on Joe when he rolls them so he’s pinning the older man against the ground and fisting a hand in his blood-wet hair to wrench his head back and bare his throat. He opens his mouth wide, feeling the shift of all his teeth as his lust for blood burns through him and lengthens them to match his canines. Joe looks surprised and impressed beneath him, struggling to buck Rick’s weight but unable to because of how the fledgling has himself positioned.

“Oh no you don’t,” Len snarls from behind him, and suddenly Rick is being dragged off of Joe and hurled through the trees. He stops when his back connects solidly with an old pine, the suddenness of it enough to make him bite through his tongue. Blood floods his mouth and leaks from the corners until he spits the mess of it off to the side and stands. Feeling the tip regrow is a strange against his gums, but considering he has bigger things to focus on right now, he decides to ignore a bit of strangeness.

“Thank you, Len,” Joe chuckles as he lets himself be helped up. The fledgling looks a little worse for wear, his clothes in tatters and his skin slick with blood – healing over slowly from the deep gouges Daryl’s claws have raked down his chest and torn into his stomach. Rick has a moment of panic before his lover melds out of the trees and takes his place at the older man’s side, where he belongs. They don’t look at each other, too focused on their respective foes, but their minds bump up against one another and twine in a familiar, steadying way.

 _Gonna be a rough’un,_ Daryl murmurs, and Rick makes a quite noise of agreement in the back of his throat. His mate answers with a low, lilting trill, and Joe’s eyes narrow when he looks between them. He must realize what’s happening, because his rage becomes potent enough to completely twist his face into something inhuman. Gone is the easy cruelty and mocking words. All that’s left now is his bestial self, the darkness that resides in his heart the same as Rick and Daryl.

 _I think we’ll be just fine_ , he replies with a confidence he actually feels, and Daryl nuzzles quickly against his shoulder before Len lunges with a scream and Rick’s hunter moves to meet him with a snarl of his own. They collide in the middle of this new battleground, Daryl’s speed and reflexes keeping him one step ahead while Len grows more and more furious every time the swipe of his claws cuts through nothing but air.

“Stop fuckin’ runnin’ and _fight me_ ,” he shouts, and Daryl grants his wish when he cuts around behind the taller man and grabs him by the back of the neck; muscles bunching and flexing with raw, beautiful power when he throws Len _through_ a tree with a force unmatched by anything in nature. The trunk splinters with a crack, shards of wood flying in every direction, and Rick watches with interest as the pine falls sideways away from them, hitting the ground with an echoing crash that makes the ground tremble.

Len is quick to get to his feet, but Daryl is faster again, his claws cutting into the man’s face as he lifts him like he weighs nothing and tosses him back over his shoulder like a ragdoll. As he watches, it strikes Rick that Len is not going to win this. Daryl took down a _bear_ , a creature far larger and heavier than the fledgling struggling to land more than glancing blows. He has fought and survived through too much to be bested by someone as unhinged as Joe’s favored lapdog.

This is about something else.

Joe isn’t trying to step in, nor is he trying to reengage with Rick. He’s watching the two younger men, his bronze eyes hard and curious. He’s watching Len struggle and making no attempt to help him, and the longer the battle rages – the more Len’s blood splatters against the ground and the higher and more pained his cries become – Rick feels the sickening dawn of realization.

Len is fighting for his right at Joe’s side. He’s fighting to prove his _worth_ to the man, and it’s enough to make the fledgling feel sick. Len wants so badly to have the affection Joe clearly holds for Daryl, and he’s willing to let himself be killed slowly to get it. It’s _disgusting_ , and he can’t bear to watch the horror show unfolding before him. He’s ready for this to be _over_.

The only warning Joe gets is the slightest shift at the corner of his eye, and then Rick is on him. He’s soundless now, his rage so overwhelming it’s muted him. He ignores the pain burrowing into his muscle with the claws that sink into his flesh; ignores Joe’s snarls as they roll across the leaves and grass and struggle to overpower one another. Rick can feel his strength waning just the slightest bit – there’s been too much blood loss, too much of everything, but he _refuses_ to give in. He’s not just fighting for his life right now – he’s fighting for every member of his family.

In the world Before, Rick ran across plenty of men like Joe. Evil, wicked men who paraded around with a smile on their face while secretly ruining the lives of anyone who caught their interest too much. They were dark, violent men who wore a handsome mask in public to throw others off their trail, and clearly the end of civilized society has allowed men like this to thrive and grow and gather a flock.

If Rick loses, they’ll all die, because Joe has no use for anyone but Daryl.

Something snaps in Rick, that berserker rage he’s always tucked away in his soul roaring to the forefront and making everything hazy. He echoes the sound of it, low and crackling like the destructive force of a forest fire. Planting his boots against Joe’s stomach, he kicks the man off of him and surges to his feet to follow after him.

Joe’s back hits the tree, his spine snapping, and Rick’s fingers plunge into his fragile muscle and flesh all the way up to the first knuckle. He crushes the bones like they’re nothing but glass, and the older man’s scream is as sweet as a symphony to Rick. His other hand finds the man’s rust-stained hair again, yanking his head back a second time and hearing the snap of it. He feels the body against his writhe and grins savagely, and through the cloud of violence dimming his vision, he sees Joe’s realization that his end is finally upon him.

The entire world is silent in the wake of Rick’s triumphant roar, and Joe’s men stand frozen in horror and watch their maker’s brutal death when Rick’s canines sink in deep and he rips out the man’s throat.

 

 

 

 _Here_.

Rick looks up and sees Daryl standing in front of him, looking nervous and biting at his crimson-stained lips. He’s holding out his wetted shop rag, the filthy red material soaked with precious water. Neither of them need it, but the others do, and for a moment he’s tempted to tell his lover not to waste such a valuable resource when they never know when their luck will run out and they won’t be able to find more in the supermarkets they frequently raid.

Eventually, he nods with a quiet, “Thanks,” and takes the offered rag. He wipes ineffectively at his face and throat, not really caring to try very hard to clean Joe’s blood from his skin. He likes knowing what it means – that he went up against an elder and _won_ , when he’s nothing better than an infant himself. It makes a vicious curl of satisfied pride warm the fledgling’s insides, his lips quirking, and Daryl eyes him with a small smirk of his own as the archer hunkers down in front of him and watches him with eyes that are once more again the clear, beautiful color of Georgia’s sky.

The bodies of Joe’s men litter the ground just beyond the fences, because after the death of their maker there was no telling what they might or might not want to do. Lou had tried to flee, and Daryl had ripped his head from his shoulders. Another man, portly and ratty looking with flat, beady eyes, had gone down squealing under Rick’s claws. The both of them are drenched in blood, their hair matted and tangled and the last traces of the feral fever still making their skin buzz and their gums itch.

Daryl leans back until his ass can hit the ground with a thump, his knees bent and his arms resting on them while he watches Rick. The fledgling finally gives up pretending to clean himself and hands the rag back over. Daryl lets it hang in his hand, making no attempt to clean himself off. Looking over his lover’s shoulder, Rick can see Tyreese and Glenn making their way closer with care. He knows that Glenn doesn’t fear them, but Tyreese still carries a hint of wariness in his eyes whenever he interacts with either of them. He tries to play it off, but his scent betrays him.

“Good job, Daryl,” Rick murmurs, and the archer glances up at him sharply from where he’s been focused on the few faint bloodstains Rick has managed to leave on his rag. He doesn’t ask for elaboration, because there’s no need for it. Len is in pieces on the other side of the fence, scattered amongst the bodies of his fallen comrades, and Rick feels a sick sort of delight in watching walkers rip into what’s left of Joe.

The deadly rage has quieted again, sunken deep back into his soul where it belongs. Rick feels strangely settled, considering what he’s just had to do. This is really no different than killing the Governor’s men, even if he wasn’t fully in control of himself at that point in time. He’s _still_ not, but at least the actions he took this time were his own decision.

 _Ain’t done so bad yerself,_ his lover huffs. Rick smiles, and Daryl smiles back before glancing over his shoulder to watch the two humans hesitate before coming the last few yards to stand on either side of him.

“You guys okay?” Glenn asks immediately. Tyreese doesn’t say anything, but the concern on his face is genuine when he looks between them. Rick feels somewhat bad, because he knows that the large, burly black man has a gentle heart. Violence is not in his soul, and that’s a dangerous thing in today’s world, but he’s trying his best, and the fledgling can appreciate that.

“We’re fine,” he replies. Daryl nods and whistles softly, the familiar call of _all clear_ ringing sweet and true in the air between the four of them. The tension in Glenn’s shoulders eases, his face breaking into a wide smile, and Rick marvels at the younger man’s ability to bounce back from everything that life throws at them now.

“Good. You guys might want to get cleaned up and come inside, though. Hershel’s called a council meeting.”

“Has he?”

 _Can’t it wait a few hours?_ Daryl grumbles. Rick huffs a laugh, and when the two men look at him curiously, he grins and elaborates.

“Daryl’s asking if it’s too much to wait a few hours. We’re both pretty hungry, and yeah, we’re in pretty desperate need of a bath. You think you could smuggle down some clothes to us so we could wash off in the stream?”

“You got it,” Tyreese agrees readily. He smiles and claps a large, heavy hand down on Rick’s shoulder. A month ago, he might have staggered under the contact, but now he barely twitches from it.

 _Things sure have changed_ , he muses as he watches his fellow survivors turn to make the trek back up to the prison. Daryl shifts a bit, slapping a palm against the ground and using it to brace himself as he climbs to his feet. Rick copies him, rising slowly and trying to ignore the painful ache in his abdomen as his body demands he feed vigorously to replace what strength he’s lost. His lover is in the same boat, and he watches Daryl sway dangerously before putting himself to rights.

“C’mere,” he rumbles, and there’s no hesitation. Daryl steps close, their chests pressing together, and when Rick cups the side of his face he nuzzles against the older man’s palm with a sweet sigh. “You’re so beautiful.” Those dazzling eyes duck away, going hooded and shy. Rick chuckles and strokes a finger down the side of his mate’s throat until Daryl glances up at him again and rumbles quietly.

_Thought we were supposed ta be bathin’._

“We are,” Rick says with a smile. “And we will. Just wanted to do this, first.”

Daryl knows well enough what he wants – he always has, even before this new, wonderful thing between them. When Rick leans closer, his lover’s head tips back a little bit, offering the vulnerable underside of his throat and pursing his lips expectantly. He knows what’s coming, is eager for it, and Rick cannot deny him this any more than he could just stand by and let another man try to take what would never be his.

Their kiss is slow and gentle, a harsh contrast to the aftereffect of the violence they’re bathed in. It’s a contrast to every aspect of them, because in this new world, there is no place for gentleness. Every day is a harsh test, a new lesson in survival, and they have managed to overcome every obstacle they’ve been faced with so far. They’ll keep doing so, if Rick has any choice in the matter.

Licking across Daryl’s lower lip, he rumbles in pleasure when his archer opens to the swipe of his tongue across teeth that are once again blunt and unassuming. There’s just the barest point to his canines, a delightful scrape against the surface of his tongue, and Rick can’t help but lick at them again and again until Daryl whines and tries to make the kiss deeper. As nice as it is to take things slow and easy, his mate is an impatient creature, and Rick will never grow tired of the sheer amount of _life_ Daryl conveys without ever needing to speak a verbal word.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against the younger man’s lips, pulling back after one last slow kiss. Daryl looks drunk on the affection, his eyelids heavy and his eyes hazy. He shakes himself out of it with obvious effort and treats Rick to another small, shy smile before motioning with a slow sweep of one hand.

_Go on, then. Ya know I’ll follow ya anywhere._

_I know_ , Rick agrees warmly. _I know you will. God, Daryl, I love you so much. You know that, darlin’?_

 _Yeah,_ his hunter grunts, smiling awkwardly but still managing to glow as he basks in the affection Rick will never stop showering him with, not for as long as he manages to live. Daryl is his, and he is Daryl’s. It’s an equal partnership, one that suits them both perfectly. When Rick turns to lead the way, he reaches back with one hand and doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile when Daryl’s palm slides against his after a moment of hesitation. Their fingers twine, their shoulders bump, and Rick leads the way toward the gate with his mate at his side, exactly where he belongs.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK WHAT I DID.
> 
> So hi guys! It's been a bit, I know, but look what I brought you! I'm sorry for my quietness again, but I've been working on a new thing (because I have no restraint) that has been monopolizing my muse pretty aggressively. It's so much fun! I don't know when I'll start posting it, honestly, but in the mean time I wanted to try and get this done, as well as a few other things.
> 
> Plus, I'm moving in a few days! That's going to take up a lot of my time, aside from working, so I figured I'd better try to give y'all somethin' to tide ya over just in case.
> 
> ENJOY.

_I can't!_

"We're out of options," Rick shouts. Daryl recoils slightly and stares at his mate with wide, startled eyes. Rick has never once shouted at him, not like this. He knows it's because the man is just as frantic and heartbroken as he is, but he _doesn't_ _understand_. He can't do this because he's still too young in terms of what they are. The scent of blood is still too much of a siren song for him.

Sophia is trying so hard not to cry; her teeth digging into her lip hard enough that he can smell the fresh blood rising. He can hear the minute rips of her flesh as it gives way beneath her determination to stay strong. Carol is holding her daughter tightly to her chest and sobbing, running a shaking hand through the girl's tangled hair as she tries to comfort her in any way she can.

"Daryl we don't have time for this!" Rick hisses. The archer can see his lover’s irises turning bronze around the edges, can see how tightly his fists are clenched as he battles his instincts. He's never hurt one of them before, and Daryl knows he'll do everything within his power to make sure he never does, but they're hungry and everything had happened so fast before they were ready to leave.

It was an accident, a stupid fucking **_accident_**. One minor miscalculation, a mistake, and now Sophia is bleeding out in front of them and Caleb is pinning Tyreese to the ground with Sasha's help while her brother struggles to get free and get to the gun that had caused all of this. He'd been practicing with the targets they've had set up for those who wanted to learn, determined to improve himself however he could. Daryl doesn't even know _why_ the children were playing so close to the range to begin with, but one of the bullets had gone too wide and no one had been ready for it. No one had been prepared for the agonized scream or Tyreese's horrified shouts for help.

"Daryl!"

"Please," Carol sobs. Daryl rips into his own thumb, his canines mangling his flesh easily as he whines. Rick has already talked to him about sharing his blood with the others, something preventative but also a way for them all to communicate and come closer as a family. The bond he and Rick have formed is unlike anything he'd ever hoped to expect, but he and Rick are _mates_ and he has no idea what giving the others his blood will do. He has no idea what giving a _child_ his blood will do.

"We need to get her inside awhile," Bob says with forced calm. He's new to their family, a drifter waiting to die while not actively pursuing suicide when Daryl and Glenn had found him just shy of a week ago. Having another doctor can only help them, but Bob already has blood smeared up his sleeves and dripping from his hands as he puts pressure on the hole the bullet had ripped into Sophia's stomach. She whimpers in pain, her eyes wet from tears and fear, but she's still trying so hard to be strong.

God, why the fuck can't they ever catch a fucking break?

"Daryl, please," Rick begs. It draws the hunter up short, because he's never heard the man use that tone before. He sounds desperate and terrified, his face tight and his muscles twitching; his mouth open while he pants raggedly and tries to keep his canines from snapping out fully. His jaws must be burning, but he's fighting it with everything he has while blood leaks from around his teeth.

 _I don' know what it'll do ta her!_ Daryl shouts in frustration. He fists his hands in his hair and yanks, growling and whining as he paces in a tight circle. This choice should be so _easy_ , because Sophia is **family** , but he sees what the turn has done for Rick—both the good and the bad of it. They all saw what Joe and his men were willing to do, what they were _happy_ to do, and Daryl is terrified of what will happen if he goes too far.

"The longer you wait, the less choice you have to keep from making that decision," Rick urges. He steps closer, crowding against Daryl and pressing warm lips to the shell of his ear. "You know what you're doin', darlin'. You won't fuck this up. C'mon, Daryl. She needs you. Please."

"It's okay," Sophia promises. She smiles at them, and Daryl watches the blood beginning to bubble at the corners of her mouth. He whines like he's the one who's been shot, agony and indecision tearing him to pieces. Rick feels it too, he feels everything through their bond, and his mate growls before fingers grab his chin and forcibly turn his head. He stares into the fledgling's marbled amber-bronze eyes, keeping Daryl in place, and his quiet words rumble with a power that makes the hunter tremble all the way to his core.

" _Save her, Daryl._ "

Wispy tendrils of fog creep across his mind, foreign but familiar at the same time. There's a heavy feel of Rick's will as it settles over him and blankets every inch of his thoughts, coercing and coaxing him in a way that it still new to Daryl, and yet easily recognizable for what it is.

Rick's Thrall is not oily and suffocating like Joe's was. It doesn't wrap him in a greasy cloud he can't escape from—doesn't make his chest tight from fear and his mind rebel like a rabid beast. This is _Rick_ , and every part of his mate is good. Even the darkest places in his mind, because their beasts only rouse when their family is threatened.

Rick is good, and just, and Daryl loves him more than he ever thought he was capable of. That does not excuse this, though. It does not change the fact that Rick is forcing him, that he’s taking away his choice even though Daryl wants more than anything to see Sophia survive.

He just wishes there has been a better way than _this_. The Thrall isn't heavy, but he has never been able to deny Rick anything, not when he knew the man was doing it for the right reasons. Rick is not a selfish man, not when it comes to material things. For his family, though, the man will be unfailingly selfish and greedy, and he will do whatever it takes to ensure his loved ones are safe. Even if they don't like the way he does it.

Daryl's knees hit the ground hard, the pain ignored easily as he shuffles closer to Sophia and Carol. His eyes are burning from a mixture of frustrated tears and the sulfur yellow bleeding across them, and they watch him with worried anticipation as he reaches for his hunting blade. He draws the knife with the familiar rasp of metal against leather, the handle warm in his grasp and sunlight catching on the gleaming steel.

"Please," Carol whispers, her tears running unhindered down her cheeks as she holds her daughter close. Sophia's heartbeat is slowing fast, her eyes dimming and her head seeming too heavy to hold up. It rolls to the side, her mouth opened slightly; blood dripping dark and red from the corner to stain her pale yellow shirt.

 _I'm sorry_ , he thinks desperately. _I'm so, so fuckin' sorry. Ya don' deserve this. I'll make it right, I promise. Jus'... fuck, don' hate me for this._

Carol gasps when he cuts into his own forearm, the blood running thickly down his wrist and dripping to the ground. Dropping his knife carelessly, he leans forward and cups the back of Sophia's head with infinite care. She already feels so cool beneath his fingers, the warmth of her life skipping away with every pulse of red that leaks into the shirt Bob still has pressed against her stomach.

 _Drink_ , he croons as he presses the bloody wound to her lips. She can't hear him, he knows she can't, but he repeats it again and again regardless. He doesn't care that he's crying, his breaths torn from him in ragged gasps as he presses his arm harder against her mouth. _C'mon sweetheart, drink up. Ya gotta._

He can feel his skin healing, and he's about to use his teeth to rip open a jagged hole in his own flesh when Sophia opens her mouth just enough for her tongue to touch his skin. It reminds him of a kitten trying to groom a bigger cat, and he rumbles encouragingly when her mouth opens wider and she starts cleaning the rest of the blood away. The slow, fumbling licks quickly turn confident, her hands coming up to grab his forearm and hold him in place as she starts to drink in earnest.

Daryl's heart breaks even as he stays still. He barely twitches from the sudden pain of her blunt teeth sinking into the healing gash to reopen it so she can drink more. There's no way she can take too much, even if he is hungry, but he can hear her wound knitting back together—can feel her strength returning in the way she grabs at him harder and harder, his skin turning white around the press of her fingers.

 _Enough_.

Sophia looks at him, and Daryl is horrified to see the thin ring of yellow around her pupils. She hisses against the wound, bloody teeth bared, and he snarls harshly enough that Bob jerks in surprise and Rick makes a low, concerned croon.

 _I said **enough** , kid_. He bares his own fangs at her, his canines heavy and thick, and she ducks her head. He twists his arm free from her grip and licks up his own blood, letting the wound heal now that there's nothing keeping it open. He watches the clarity dawn, watches the way Sophia's eyes get wide as the sulfur yellow glow fades away and understanding turns to distress.

"Daryl, I'm so sorry," she whimpers. "Oh my gosh, I _hurt_ you!"

 _Nah_ , he grunts, and he watches the shock flicker across her young face. This is the first time she's heard his voice, and the surprise turns to awe before she suddenly launches herself into his arms. He grunts again from the sudden weight of her, even though, to him, she feels so light. Gathering her close, he presses his nose against her hair and makes a soft, soothing sound in the back of his throat. _Easy, kiddo, s’alright. S'gonna take a helluva lot more'n just yer teeth ta really hurt me. Ain't even got fangs._ He clicks his for emphasis, managing to win a watery chuckle from her, and he smiles. _You'n me, we're good. Don' ever worry 'bout that. Should be th' one apologizin' ta ya fer dickin' around about it._

"Forgiven," the girl giggles. He presses a quick kiss to the crown of her head, mentally shaking away the last traces of Rick's Thrall and pointedly ignoring his mate when he feels a gentle nudge against his mind. Sophia's fine now, he didn't fuck anything up, but he's _livid_. Rick took away his choice. Not in the same way Joe had, but he still did it.

 _Let Bob check you over_ , he murmurs. She tightens her arms around him for a moment before finally pulling away and turning to the medic. Carol takes her place, kneeling in front of Daryl and hugging him so tightly his ribs manage to ache in protest.

"Thank you," she whispers. He rests his face in the crook of her neck, hugging her back carefully, and he nods because she can't understand him. Not like Rick, and not like Sophia can now. Once he manages to pull away from the older woman, he glances over to see Bob checking over Sophia. Their eyes meet, the gentle-natured medic giving him a slight smile and smelling strongly of gratitude and awe. Daryl can’t handle that, not right now. He's quick to get to his feet and head for the main gates with Rick right behind him.

"Daryl-"

 _Don't_ , he snarls. _So help me god, Rick, you say one fuckin' thing ta me right now an' Imma knock yer goddamn teeth down int'a yer dick. Don' fuckin' talk ta me._

Rick wisely keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't outwardly react to Daryl's aggression, even though it must grate against his instincts fiercely. _Good_ , the archer thinks savagely. _Let him be pissy 'bout it. Maybe he'll fuckin' learn somethin'._

Their relationship has always been an equal partnership. Even if their dynamic in the bedroom, as it were, is very set in stone, they have always been equals. Daryl is a submissive creature, but he is not _weak_. Rick is dominant, but he is _not_ needlessly cruel.

A life was on the line, and a decision needed to be made. Daryl would have saved Sophia, he knows in his twisted heart and his stained soul that he would not have let her die, not like that, but that's not the problem here. _Rick_ is the problem, because he took away Daryl's right to choose _again_ , and the archer is furious about it. He's angry enough that he's not even trying to be silent as he stalks through the forest, because nothing he might want to hunt will ever be able to outrun him.

An old, strong buck finds that out the hard way when it tries to fight back. Daryl rips into the beast's throat with a hiss and drinks deeply, the hot blood bubbling around his mouth and staining his clothes as he presses against his kill and feasts. Rick shifts closer, his eyes glowing, and Daryl lifts his head long enough to snarl in warning.

 _Mine_ , he spits. They've shared meals ever since Rick first turned, but Daryl is in no mood to be accommodating right now. _Go find yer own fuckin' food._

Rick growls quietly, his eyes flashing. His lips pull back slightly, his displeasure clear to see, and Daryl snarls louder as he hunches possessively over his kill.

_I really don' give two shits if this pisses ya off. Get th' fuck away from me, Rick. Can' even stand ta look at ya righ' now. Just fuckin' **go** **away**._

His lover backs away slowly, his anger fading to sorrow. Daryl ignores him, ignores the bitter scent of sadness that fills his nose and makes him feel like he's choking. Any other time, he'd be trying to fix this. They'd be falling against each other and holding on tightly, sharing their anguish and helping each other through it.

This time, Daryl rips further into the dead buck's throat until blood mats his hair down and drips from the tip of his nose as he swallows the bitter taste of his mate's sorrow and his own shortcomings with every mouthful.

For the first time since he rolled over for Rick like the bitch he always swore he wasn't, Daryl finds himself hating whatever part of his biology dictated that he's submissive. If he wasn't so week and greedy, so goddamn _desperate_ , maybe he could have avoided this. Maybe, if he'd tried harder, he could have had eyes that turned bronze instead of yellow. If he'd listened to Merle more, had tried harder to be what he'd never been able to be before, none of this would have happened.

If he'd been stronger, Joe would have had no reason to pin him to the ground and ruin his fucking life. Even if he'd tried, Daryl could have shot him between the eyes and _ended_ this bullshit before it had even begun. If he'd been better, if he'd been _smarter_ , he'd have killed his daddy before something else could; long before the world went to shit.

Once the buck has nothing left to give, Daryl rocks back onto his haunches and sucks the last of the blood from his fingers. His sharp eyes slant sideways, spotting Rick easily through the press of trees. His mate is kneeling beside the body of a doe, his eyes hooded but still keen as he watches Daryl while he feeds. The archer looks away stubbornly, standing and tilting his face to let the sunlight warm his cheeks. He breathes in deeply, smelling the woods and the fading trails left by the deer they've startled. He smells moss and musk and cedar, and his abdomen clenches when Rick's heavy, addictive scent makes his mouth water instinctively.

Hissing, he grinds his palms against his eyes until it hurts. He has every right to be fucking pissed, and he is. He's still so angry that he wants to punch the closest thing until it's nothing but pulp. He wants to _rage_ until he's empty and numb, because he trusts Rick, he's always trusted him, and he feels like he's been betrayed.

And yet...

Looking over at his mate again, Daryl clenches his teeth and waits until Rick has finished eating and is standing beside the doe, watching him and waiting patiently. His shoulders are curled in, his head dipped in remorse. Daryl knows he regrets what he's done. He also knows that Rick _doesn_ ' _t_ regret the fact that Sophia is alive. She's just a child, and she deserves every chance at life she can get, even if the world isn't worth much anymore. It's still enough to give her a fighting chance and hope for something better, even if that's a pipe dream that will never come to pass.

 _That's th' second time ya took away my choice for somethin'_ , he finally growls. Rick nods slowly, watching him with eyes that are caught somewhere between swirling amber-bronze and dark, stormy blue.

"I know," his mate says quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that to you, darlin’, not after what happened. I know you would have saved her, but I felt like we were losin’ too much time. We needed to _do_ something, fast.”

 _So ya forced me ta make a decision ya damn well **knew** I was already gonna make?_ Daryl crosses his arms and glares at Rick. His eyes burn yellow, the world around him sharpening the way it always does when he lets this part of him spill free unchecked. Rick reacts to his aggression by drawing himself to his full height, his upper lip twitching back to bare his canines. Power gathers around him, crackling dangerously and filling the air with the scent of ozone before a storm.

“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But _do not_ take it out on me this way, Daryl,” he growls. The archer hisses, ready to snap back that he’ll handle this whatever fucking way he feels like, but Rick moves before he can form the words.

His back hits the closest tree hard, the grunt forced out of him echoing in the miniscule space between them. His claws are already digging into his mate’s arms, blood welling up around the points. Daryl snaps his teeth like a wolf, jerking forward and aiming for the closest patch of skin to sink them into. Rick grabs a handful of his hair and pulls his head back, baring his throat to the older, stronger creature and making his eyes water from the sting.

 _Get th’ fuck off’a me!_ he snarls. He’s struggling in earnest, but he knows himself well enough. If he wanted to get away from Rick, the man never would have caught him. Daryl would be long gone by now, instead of pinned to a tree with his lover’s weight keeping him in place. He doesn’t back down easily—he never has—and even being mated to Rick, he’s never let himself be pushed around. Not willingly, at least.

“Daryl, just _listen_ to me.”

_Ain’t listenin’ ta a goddamn thing ya gotta say, Grimes! Get off!_

“No,” Rick snarls. The deep rumble in his voice makes Daryl still, his chest heaving and his gums aching as he pants and glares. As angry as he is, as much as he wants to punch Rick in the face and then keep going after he’s down, the hurt is even worse. He’s ashamed when he feels hot tears dripping down his face, his fast pants turning to choked sobs that he can’t stop. When he tries to curl into himself and hide, his mate refuses to let him. He butts his head against Daryl’s like they’re wolves, keeping him from looking away. Their foreheads press together, their skin warm and their hot breaths mingling.

“I’m sorry, Daryl,” he whispers. The archer shakes his head harshly; fists his hands in the back of Rick’s shirt and drags him impossibly closer. He wants to throw him across the forest, but instead he clings to him like Rick will leave on his own if Daryl loosens his hold even slightly. He knows that’s not true, because his lover is holding onto him just as tightly, crooning and stroking a hand through his hair as he falls to pieces now that his adrenaline is wearing off.

 _I fuckin’ hate you,_ he whispers, and he knows it’s a goddamn lie just as well as Rick does. The fledgling croons sadly and presses soft, fleeting kisses against his wet cheeks, wiping away his sadness and his frustration until the tears finally trickle to a stop. He slumps forward against the strong chest that has always, no matter what, braced him when he couldn’t hold himself up.

“I love you so much, darlin’,” Rick murmurs against his matted hair. The scent of blood hangs heavily around them, the two of them coated in it like a familiar second skin that neither one can be bothered by. Even before Rick’s turn, his lover had gotten used to being covered in less-than ideal substances. The way the world is now, there’s no other option.

Daryl has long been comfortable being covered in blood. Craving Rick is a newer thing in comparison, but the desire is no less powerful than his need to frequently feed. Turning his head, he tucks his nose up under the man’s jaw and breathes him deep into his lungs; shuddering out the exhale while he curls and uncurls his fists in the back of Rick’s shirt like a cat kneading a blanket.

_You do that one more fuckin’ time, Rick, an’ I swear I’ll fuckin’ kill you._

“I’ll kill myself, first,” the man chuckles weakly. Daryl growls until Rick lifts his head enough to kiss him. It’s not slow or sweet; neither of them can handle that right now. It’s fast and frantic and wet, their tongues battling and their fingers pressing bruises into each other as they fight and love the way they always have.

 _I’m sorry_ , his mate breathes against his thoughts. Daryl whines softly and tries to get closer, shoving off the tree and sending them both tumbling to the ground. Neither of them hear any walkers, so they don’t bother trying to stop. Rick rolls them so he’s on top, Daryl pinned to the forest floor beneath him where he loves to be. As angry as he gets, as much as he wished before that he’d been different, he can’t deny the thrill of having a creature as powerful and _beautiful_ as Rick crouching over him. Those dark, storm-blue eyes are full of so much love and pain, those full lips swollen and wet from their kisses. They look at each other, everything they cannot bring themselves to say reflected in their eyes and spoken through the touch of their bodies.

“I swore I would never take your choice from you, and I’ve done it twice. Would you believe me if I told you I’ll never do it again?”

Daryl looks up at him, his fangs retracted and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He chews on it until it hurts, and Rick makes a quiet, sad sound before his thumb frees the abused flesh. Turning his head slightly, the archer licks the pad of it, eyes still focused on Rick’s as he takes the tip into his mouth and sucks it gently. He groans when it presses deeper, skin tacky from blood and gritty from dirt smearing the flavors over his tongue. His legs spread slightly, welcoming his mate between them, and the spike of adoration in Rick’s scent is enough to make him close his eyes and rest his head back against the ground.

 _Prove ya won’t,_ he challenges quietly. It comes out as more of a plea, his emotions a tangled rollercoaster that’s leaving him feeling torn in every direction until it hurts. Just like every other time, Rick settles over him and brings the frayed, tormented edges of him back together; smooths them out and fits them back into one whole piece using his love and Daryl’s own to seal the edges.

“Every day for the rest of my life,” Rick vows.

Daryl sincerely hopes so.

 

 

 

It’s dark by the time they make it back to the prison. Between the two of them, they’re hauling three fresh deer carcasses, leaving thick trails of blood behind them as they drag their kills home. They’re side by side, bumping shoulders as much as they can every so often. They don’t need to reaffirm to each other that they’re there, but it’s something they’ve always done. They’ve always been tactile with one another, even before the first time Rick pushed inside of him and brought them closer in a way Daryl had been desperate for, even if he’d never thought it would happen.

Carol is guarding the gate, her blue eyes bright and watchful as she scans for walkers as well as keeping an eye out for them. When they step out of the woods, already on the road, they can smell her relief even from yards away. She struggles to get the heavy gates open as they come closer, putting all of her body weight behind it and making a quiet, pleased sound when they finally creak open far enough for Rick and Daryl to slip through.

 _I got it_ , he mutters before Rick can lower his kills. The hunter drops his own doe and goes to help Carol shut the gates again before any of the walkers staggering closer can get in as well. It wouldn’t be that big of an issue, not for them, but Daryl has had more than enough of dealing with bullshit from the outside world for the next week or so. All he wants is to gut and clean the kills, shower off, and fall into bed.

“Thank you,” the woman whispers. She leans against him, not even bothered by the blood he’s covered in. Rumbling quietly, he gives her a quick hug and nods against her soft, gray hair before turning back to where Rick is waiting for him.

“C’mon,” his mate says. Daryl nods and picks up his doe again, following Rick the way he has since the beginning. Most of the prison is silent as their family sleeps. Even the Woodbury Block is quiet aside from the soft murmur of one or two voices. Daryl recognizes Tyreese’s deep baritone and Sasha’s softer tenor, but he doesn’t try to pick out what they’re saying. It’s none of his business, anyway.

Side by side, he and Rick lay the deer across three of the tables in the cafeteria. They tie off the hind hooves before Daryl hoists them up one at a time until they’re hanging from one of the sturdier pipes that runs across the ceiling. They share a quick glance before his mate goes to grab the buckets.

Together, they open the jugular veins and stand back to let the blood drain from the bodies. Rick is a strong, capable presence at his side, his scent filling Daryl’s nose and making his eyes flutter closed as he sinks into it and chews the inside of his lip.

 _I love you_ , he whispers shyly. _I love you so fuckin’ much it’s ridiculous. If you ever do that to me again, I **will** gut you._

“I know,” Rick whispers back. He hears the man move and bites down harder to hide his smile when warm lips press against his temple. Through everything they’ve faced, and despite everything they’ve already done, being shown any ounce of affection from his mate is still enough to make Daryl giddy like he’s a teenager again. Not that his teenage years were particularly happy for him, but he’s heard the phrase more than enough to understand what it means.

Rick makes him feel alive in ways no one else has ever come close to. Everything he has done—with the exception of two times—he has done to show Daryl just how incredible he finds the archer to be. His love is as deep and as fathomless as the ocean, the depths of it something Daryl knows he will never be able to reach. He’s not even going to try, because he knows he’ll never find the bottom of Rick’s love for him, and he’s not foolish enough to try. He might still wonder every once and a while when the other shoe will drop, but until the day it does, he’s not going to actively search.

“I love you too,” his mate adds after a moment. It fills Daryl to the brim with warmth, chasing away the last stubborn dregs of his earlier distress. He ducks his head and presses harder against Rick’s side, turning his head up in a silent request for a kiss. They come together slowly, with an ease that should be impossible after everything, and yet manages to be so fucking perfect that Daryl feels his heart thump painfully in his chest.

No one ever said love was supposed to be easy, and for Daryl, _nothing_ in life has been easy. This, though… This is probably one of the most rewarding, satisfying things he’s ever had. His love for Rick is just as deep and all-consuming as the love his mate has for him. They will always fight, because they’re two strong personalities in a dying world. There will be anger, and tears, and frustration. There will also be joy, and laughter, and so much light that it’s a wonder they can find it at all with how dark the circumstances around them have become.

When they pull apart, Daryl’s lips are tingling and his arms are wrapped around Rick’s neck. His lover’s eyes are glowing with a hint of his newer nature, a thin ring around his pupils and the slight scrape of claws against the dip of Daryl’s back making the archer shiver from excitement.

 _C’mon,_ he purrs. _Let’s get these deer done, an’ ya can take me ta bed an’ show me just how much ya love me._

It’s cheesy as fuck, but the way Rick’s eyes flash as his lips spread in a wolfish grin, the moonlight spilling in from the nearby window making his teeth shine, sends a shiver of anticipation through Daryl and makes him whine quietly.

“Your wish is my command, darlin’,” the man croons. They nuzzle each other, stealing a few more kisses between them, before Rick finally chuckles and steps back. He has to be the one to do it, because Daryl is too eager to stay pressed close—almost tempted to just forget about the deer altogether and drag his lover to their nest on the roof. Rick knows it, too, and he takes one more searing kiss that leaves the archer panting and wanting before he moves toward the deer that have drained and are waiting. “Soon, Daryl, I promise. Help me with these, and I’m yours for the rest of the night. Sound good to you?”

 _Sounds fuckin’ perfect_. Drawing his knife, he takes his place at Rick’s side where he’s always belonged, and they work just as seamlessly as they always have to feed their family first before they see to their own pleasures; just as it should be.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at what I finished! \0/
> 
> It's taken a long while to get here, but it's finally done! Eeeeeeeeeeeee! *wiggles*
> 
> My day kinda went shitty, and I'd wanted ta work on this anyway, so I curled up in bed and just started typin'. It's about half th' size of th' other chapters, but it's th' endin' I think this fic has been waitin' for. So, I hope y'all love it.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has commented, left kudos, and generally just been absolutely amazin' about this whole fuckin' thing. Special thanks to HigherMagic, who gave me the original idea and has been incredibly patient as I struggled with no inspiration, a hectic life, and many other frustrations that kept me from writing. I hope you love your fic, darling. <3 Your baby is finally complete.

_One year later..._

 

 

 

"Dad!"

Rick looks up from the row of peas he's been harvesting, one dirty, gloved hand coming up to shade his eyes as he watches Carl run toward him. For a moment, he thinks something is wrong and his instincts rouse with a growl. His eyes burn, a quick flash of amber-bronze coloring them, but then he sees the wide grin on Carl's face and his tension melts away.

"What's up?" he asks once the teenager is close enough that they don't have to shout to be heard across the field. They've all kept up with the walkers well enough, even Tyreese, but there's no need to bring more to them when it's not necessary.

It's been a year of relative peace for them—a year since Joe and his men. Since the Governor and Rick's turn. Aside from the walkers, the biggest issue they've dealt with was an illness that swept through B and D Blocks a few months back. Thanks to Hershel’s knowledge of the area and Bob's medical skills, they'd managed to save more than they've lost.

Rick can hardly believe that it's been a year, but he sees the proof in the way Carl had changed as he slowly grows into himself—the sharp features as he loses his baby fat, his kind eyes that are so much like Rick’s, and wild hair that reminds him constantly of Daryl's tangled mane. It's almost as long now as the archer's, and it's funny to watch the both of them miraculously disappear every time Carol brings out the scissors.

The only one besides Rick who manages to sit still for the woman is Judith. She adores Carol almost as much as she loves Daryl. Rick can't bring himself to be jealous, though, considering their baby girl hangs on him as often as she can get away with.

"Daryl's on his way back!"

Carl's excited exclamation snaps him out of his thoughts. He glances up quickly to check the position of the sun and frowns. "Already? He didn't think they'd be back for at least a few more hours yet." Why hadn't he told him that they'd cut the run short? It was supposed to be an easy one. Just Daryl, Glenn, and Sasha. They'd found a Big Spot nearby and had decided to go raid it for whatever they could find that would be useful. Sasha had even rigged a boom box to a car battery to draw the walkers away with music.

"He said they found people," Carl replies. He looks worried now that his excitement is fading, and he's checking the sun too. He's learned a lot from Daryl about telling the time by the angle of the sun and reading tracks, especially in the last several months. He's got more of a knack for it than Rick, who enjoys chasing down his prey quickly rather than spending the time following trails when his hunger gets too insistent.

"Wonder why he didn't tell me." Resting a hand on Carl's head, he fixes his son's lopsided sheriff's hat with a grin. The teenager makes a noise of protest and bats at his hand, but his eyes are sparkling beneath the wide brim of his hat as they walk side by side towards the gate. Rick can feel his mate getting closer slowly, but he doesn't reach out for him yet. If Daryl chose to send word to Carl rather than him, he must have had a reason.

After Sophia's injury, it had taken a long time for him to gain Daryl's trust back completely. Rick had fought for every scrap of it, had done everything in his power to prove to his lover that he would never betray him like that again. If Merle had still been alive, Rick knows the older Dixon would have shot him for breaking his word the way he had. Since he wasn't there to do it, Daryl and the core members of their family had punished him well enough in the man's stead.

Sophia had been the one to convince Daryl that linking all of them was a good idea. She could hear him, and he could sense vague things from her, and it had worked out that she'd been the one to know when a group of walkers had caught him off guard during a hunt. If she hadn't heard him before Rick, it would have ended a lot worse than it had.

After that, it had taken very little coaxing for him to agree to opening a link to the others. He'd still been reserved about it, afraid of what giving them his _blood_ would make them think of him, but he had nothing to worry about. He'd never had anything to worry about when it came to their family, and Rick had given them all his own blood to keep his mate from feeling alone. Accepting their blood in return had been harder for him, because he's still so much younger and newer to their life, but Rick knows that doing it has paid off more than once and kept them alive in situations that would have ended far more tragically otherwise.

Licking his lips, Rick whistles sharply once they're standing by the gates--high and echoing in a tune they have all become familiar with.

_Where are you?_

After a moment, he hears the clear, sweet series of replies. He smiles at the way his chest warms as if it's still the first time he's ever communicated with Daryl. As if this thing between them is still new and fragile instead of settled and as unshakeable as a mountain.

_Road. Comin' home. Got company._

Rick glances at Carl, who is practically vibrating from excitement as he looks toward the road and waits. He can't hear the roar of the motorcycle Daryl found almost four months ago, but Rick can. It's still quiet, still a few miles out, but he knows that means that his lover will be home soon. Licking his lips again, he takes a deep breath and whistles again.

 _Travel_ _safe_.

 _Always_ _do_ , _alpha_.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Rick rocks back on his heels and smiles as he and Carl wait for their beloved hunter to come home.

It takes barely ten minutes before the roar of Daryl's bike is loud enough to bring the rest of their family out to gather in the courtyard or wait in the fields. Judith is squealing happily, her butchered version of Daryl's name mixed with an excited stream of indecipherable babble that Rick knows never fails to make his archer smile.

The bike his lover found is a massive patchwork beast that Daryl hunted down all manner of parts for. It runs beautifully for him, even if it's not the most aesthetically appealing thing to look at. Sasha and Glenn are following behind him, although Sasha is driving the saturn they left with while Glenn is following in an old, beat-up school bus they must have found along the way. Rick makes an intrigued noise low in his throat before nodding at Carl to open the inner gate while he uses his own strength to drag open the main slabs.

 _Hey_ , Daryl murmurs warmly as he walks his bike in without bothering to dismount first. Rick wants to greet him with a kiss and possibly too many questions, but he has to wait for now.

Once everyone is safely inside the fences, Rick pulls on the rope pulley that swings the gate shut again. He ignores the walkers that have impaled themselves on the wall of spikes and hurries into the main yard with Carl. Daryl has already shut his bike off, cutting off the deep rumble and leaving ringing silence that's quickly broken when Glenn opens the doors of the bus with a protesting creek.

"You didn't tell me you were comin' home early, darlin'," Rick purrs as he crowds into Daryl's space and cups the side of his face. There's only a moment of hesitation from his lover—still so shy after all this time—but he's quick to melt into Rick's embrace and accept the eager kiss he presses to the younger man's lips.

 _Didn't wanna bother ya. Know yer harvestin' stuff t'day anyway. Figured Carl would tell ya soon enough._ Daryl takes another kiss, and then another, before stepping away with obvious reluctance. _C'mon, come an' meet everyone._

"Everyone" is twelve men and women who look like they've seen better days. Rick is shocked to see such a large group, and he watches the way they huddle close and look around with wary eyes. He remembers when his family was the same way, back before they found the prison. The road is a harsh, unforgiving place if you aren't prepared for it. These people have probably had to do things they are far from proud of in order to survive.

"My name is Rick Grimes," he starts off. All of them look toward him, and he picks out a few right off the bat that look like they might be trouble in some way or another. There's a small, frightened looking black man with sweat on his cheeks and a priest's collar at his throat. There's a man and a woman looking at him with hard stares who strike him as former military standing protectively in front of another nervous-looking man. "If you're here, it's because you answered my peoples' questions right and you're in need of somewhere to go. Mind telling me where you come from, though?"

An older woman with mousey brown hair steps forward, and a tall, curly-haired man stays at her shoulder. He's looking at Rick with curious blue eyes, while the woman raises her head. There's strength and pride in her, but not arrogance. Rick likes her already.

"My name is Deanna Monroe," she says. Her voice is quiet, and a little rougher than Rick was expecting. They must all be in desperate need of a drink. "Most of us come from Virginia. We had a community, there. Alexandria. It had walls, but they weren't enough." Her eyes trail to the fences around them. "You seem to be doing well here, though."

"We are," Rick agrees easily. "You said _most_ of you?"

"She means us," the red-haired military man says as he steps forward. Rick looks at him, at the way his broad shoulders are tense and his fingers are tight around the body of the rifle he's holding. "Names Abraham Ford, friend. This here's Rosita, and Eugene, and Tara." They all wave and nod in turn. "Father Gabriel is ours, too. Found him on our travels." The priest nods quietly and looks down.

Daryl steps up to stand by his side. _They're good people, Rick_ , his hunter says quietly. Rick glances at him, waiting, and Daryl's lips twitch. _Ford has one helluva mouth on him, but he ain't **bad**. They're like we were. They jus' need a home._

"Can you promise you'll follow the rules, and help keep this place safe?" Turning to look at the group gathered in front of the bus, he tilts his head slightly. "If this isn't somewhere you find yourself wanting to be, then you are of course free to leave. If you stay though, you help. There's too much shit outside the fences that would see you dead faster than alive."

"We'll pull our weight," the man at Deanna's side promises. Rick meets his determined stare, and he dips his head just slightly, as though he's showing deference to Rick--acknowledging his rank as leader. "I'm Aaron," he offers. A blonde man behind him that carries his scent smiles and rests a hand on Aaron's shoulder, giving him support. "We've been out there a long time. If you can give us some time to adjust to this, we'll help wherever we can."

"Take the time you need. You must be exhausted." Rick smiles kindly at them, noticing the way a thin, nervous blonde woman keeps her two sons close as some of his family starts to edge closer. Judith is beside herself with glee at all the new faces, and seeing the toddler makes the people in front of him relax further. He even sees a few smiles here and there.

"It's almost time for us to start dinner," he adds once everyone settles again. There's no hiding the eagerness those words bring forth from the group of survivors. Beside him, Daryl rumbles softly, radiating contentment in a way that makes the last of Rick's reservations fade away.

Above them, the sun shines brightly in the cloudless sky, falling warmly across their shoulders and baking the dry ground beneath their boots. Deanna nods her head gratefully to Rick, accepting his offer on the behalf of everyone. He nods back at her, smiling, and feels the way Daryl's mind nudges up against his.

 _Looks like things are turnin' even more in our favor, alpha_ , his lover says happily. Rick gives him the mental equivalent of a nuzzle and a lick, and he doesn't miss the way his mate shivers beside him.

Before the world went to hell, Rick never believed in the undead rising to feast on the living. It was all myth and horror confined to zombie movies and bad television shows. He never believed in vampires—inhuman men who drank the blood of living things to survive, because to him that was just like the zombies: nothing but myth and legend.

A lot has changed for him since then. He's killed more walkers than he's seen living, breathing people. He's _mated_ to a man who can't really be called a vampire, but he's certainly not human either. Daryl is a species all his own, something powerful and beautiful that still makes Rick's breath catch and his heart stutter like he's a teenager with a crush.

Rick can't even call himself human anymore, but in this new world order, humanity is a relative concept. Society is no longer like it was. It can't be, not when everything around them has been so thoroughly destroyed. They're still here, though. They've _survived_ , this family, and they've come together to be even stronger now than they could ever have been Before.

Looking at the people waiting in front of him, Rick sees their fire to survive—the frailties of their pasts burned away and scattered like ashes on the winds. It's left behind not something charred and easily broken, but rather something strong that's been forged by circumstance to leave them as exactly what they need to be, if they plan to keep on living.

In them, Rick sees the same fire that burns within his family. He sees the wildness that runs through himself, the willpower that drives Daryl forward. He sees the beauty of their potential, and it makes him smile as he tips his head in welcome as the beast in him rumbles in satisfaction as they look upon their new family.

"You are all safe now," he promises, and the way their shoulders relax and their eyes brighten tells him everything he needs to know. He smiles even wider and smells the sweet scent of Daryl's happiness as his mate steps aside to clear the way for them, granting the road-weary survivors entrance to their new home.

"Welcome to the family."


End file.
